I open the folder and find the ship’s registry for The Minotaur. Last night, I’d had trouble reading the ornate handwriting, but now, in the bright morning light, I’m able to decipher the faded description of Captain Brodie’s doomed ship. Launched September 4, 1862, The Minotaur was built by Goss, Sawyer & Packard in Bath, Maine. Wooden hulled and classified as a “Down Easter,” she was a three-masted sailing ship, 250 feet long, 44 feet wide, and she weighed a little over two tons. She required a crew of thirty-five. Owned by the Charles Thayer syndicate of Portland, The Minotaur was a merchant vessel built for speed, but she was also rugged enough to survive the brutal passage around the Cape of Good Hope as she sailed between the Maine coast and the Far East.
I page through the next documents, which list the ship’s voyages, the various ports she visited, and the cargoes she carried. Sailing to Shanghai, she carried animal hides and sugar, wool and something called case oil. On her return to America, she carried tea and silk, ivory and carpets. On her maiden voyage, she was under the command of Captain Jeremiah Brodie.
For twelve years, he was master of The Minotaur as she sailed to Shanghai and Macau, San Francisco and London. While these ship’s documents do not tell me what he was paid for his services, it is clear from this house he built, with its grand proportions and fine woodwork, that his income from these voyages must have been handsome, but it was also hard-earned. After toiling so many months at sea, what joy he must have felt when he could finally return to this house and sleep in a bed that did not sway, and dine on fresh meat and greens pulled straight from the garden.
I flip past the registry pages and find a photocopied news clipping from the Camden Herald, January 1875.
Tragedy has befallen yet another Maine vessel in the turbulent waters off the Cape of Good Hope. The Down Easter The Minotaur, which sailed from Tucker Harbor six months ago, is now believed lost at sea. She last put in to port in Rio de Janeiro on the 8th of September and departed three days later, bound for Shanghai. Her route would have taken her round the fearsome cape, where heavy winds and monstrous waves regularly threaten the lives of the daring souls who brave the sea. It is in these waters that The Minotaur most likely met her terrible end. A portion of the mail bags she was carrying, as well as splintered fragments of wood, have washed ashore at Port Elizabeth near the southern tip of Africa. Among the thirty-six souls presumed lost was Captain Jeremiah Brodie of Tucker Harbor, an experienced ship’s master under whose command The Minotaur had safely made the same passage five times previously. That a seasoned captain and crew on a sound ship could meet their doom on a voyage so familiar to them is a reminder that the sea is both perilous and unforgiving.
I open my laptop and google the Cape of Good Hope. It is a cruelly misleading name for the passage that was once called, by the Portuguese, “the Cape of Storms.” I study photos of terrifying waves crashing on a rocky coastline. I imagine the howl of the wind, the groan of ship’s timbers, and the horror of watching your men wash overboard as the rocks loom ever closer. So this was where he died. The sea claims even the ablest sailor.
I turn the page, expecting to read more details of the tragedy. Instead I find several photocopied pages of a handwritten letter, dated a year before the sinking of The Minotaur. In the top corner is a yellow Post-it on which either Maeve or her research librarian friend has jotted an explanatory note:
Found this among papers from the estate of a Mrs. Ellen Graham, died 1922. Note the reference to The Minotaur.
The letter itself appears written by a woman’s hand, the words neatly and elegantly formed.
Dearest Ellen,
I send this latest news to you, along with the bolt of China silk which you have so eagerly awaited all these months. The shipment arrived last week aboard The Minotaur, a vast array of silks which were all so tempting that Mama and I were quite unable to decide which ones to purchase. We had to make our choices quickly, because all the young ladies in town will soon be clamoring to snatch up what they can. Mama and I chose bolts of rose pink and canary yellow. For you, I chose the green, because I think it will suit your red hair quite nicely. How fortunate we were to have our pick of the treasures straight from the ship. By next week, the rest will be on their way to shops up and down the coast.
Our good fortune in this regard is courtesy of Mama’s cordial relations with our seamstress, Mrs. Stephens, whose husband serves as Captain Brodie’s first mate. She was kind enough to alert Mama about the bounty of silks that had just arrived, and we were invited to the warehouse to peruse the treasures on the very day they were unloaded.
Despite all the pretty silks and carpets, I admit I was quite distracted by another sight: the fine figure of Captain Brodie himself, who strode into the warehouse a short time after Mama and I arrived. I was crouching over a crate of silk when I heard him speaking to the warehouseman. I looked up and there he stood, framed by the light in the doorway, and I was so startled I must have looked like quite the codfish with my mouth agape. I do not think he noticed me at first, so I was quite at liberty to stare. When he last sailed from Tucker Harbor, I was but thirteen years old. Now it is three years later and I’m fully capable of appreciating a broad pair of shoulders and a fine square jaw. I must have stared for a good long minute before he noticed me and smiled.
And, dear Ellen, did I mention he is not married?
If he’d spoken to me, I do not think I could have managed to say a single word. But just then, Mama took my arm and said quietly: “We’ve made our purchases, Ionia. It’s time for us to leave.”
I did not want to leave. I could have stood in that cold warehouse for an eternity, staring at the captain and basking in the warmth of his smile. Mama was insistent that we hurry away, so I had only those few precious moments to admire him. I truly believed he returned my look with similar appreciation, but when I told Mama, she warned me not to entertain such thoughts.
“Keep your wits about you, for pity’s sake,” she told me. “You’re just a girl. If you’re not careful, a man will take advantage.”
Is it wicked of me that I rather like that idea?
Next week, there will be a dinner party for the ship’s officers at Brodie’s Watch. I have been invited, but Mama has turned down the invitation! My friend Genevieve will be going, and Lydia too, but Mama insists I must stay home. Quietly knitting, I suppose, like the future spinster I will surely be. I am almost as old as the other girls, and I am certainly old enough to attend a dinner party with gentlemen, but Mama has forbidden it. It is so unfair! She says I am too innocent. She says I do not know the captain’s sordid reputation. She has heard rumors about what goes on in his house late into the night. When I press her on this matter, her lips tighten like purse strings and she refuses to say more.
Oh, Ellen, it is sheer misery to know what I will be missing. I think of that grand house on the hill. I think of those other girls smiling at him (and even worse, of him smiling back at them). I live in dread of some future wedding announcement. What if he chooses Genevieve or Lydia as his wife?
It will all be Mama’s fault.
I pause, my gaze returning to that sentence at the top of the page. Mama says I do not know the captain’s sordid reputation. She has heard rumors.
What rumors might they be? What could have so scandalized Ionia’s mother that she forbade her sixteen-year-old daughter from any contact with Brodie? There would be the age difference, as well. The year this letter was written, Jeremiah Brodie would have been thirty-eight years old, more than twice the girl’s age, and based on her description of him, a strapping man in his masculine prime. I think of the portrait I saw hanging in the historical society, and can imagine how he must have set every young lady’s heart aflutter. He was a man of the world, commander of a sailing vessel, and the master of this grand house on the hill. He was also unmarried; what young lady wouldn’t want to catch his eye?
I ima
gine the dinner party at Brodie’s Watch and picture the cooks and servants bustling about in this kitchen where I’m now sitting. And in the dining room would be ship’s officers and flickering candles and young ladies dressed in those shimmering silks that The Minotaur had brought from China. There would be laughter and wine and more than a few amorous glances exchanged. And at the head of the table would be Jeremiah Brodie, whose notorious reputation made him off-limits for at least one innocent young lady.
Hungry to know more about his reputation, I turn to the next page of the letter. I’m disappointed to find only one final paragraph by Ionia.
* * *
—
Please, can you speak to your mama on my behalf? Ask her to speak to mine? The times have changed, and we are not the hothouse flowers they were at our age. If I cannot go to the party, I must find some other way to see him again. The Minotaur is in need of repairs and remains in dock at least until May. Surely other opportunities will arise before my captain once again sets sail!
As always, Ionia
I don’t know Ionia’s surname or what became of her, but I do know that three months after she wrote this letter, Captain Brodie would set sail on his doomed voyage.
I set down the pages, thinking of what she’d written: She says I am too innocent. She has heard rumors about what goes on in his house late into the night. I think of him standing in my bedroom. I think of his hand on my breast. And his words:
Do you submit?
My heart is pounding, my skin flushed. No, he is not a man suitable for the innocent Ionias of the world. He is a man who knows what he wants, and what he wants is a woman willing to take a bite of a dangerous apple. A woman willing to be led into a dark game where he holds all the power. Where the ultimate delights begin with complete surrender.
I am ready to play his game.
Thirteen
That night I sip wine as I take a long bath in the claw-foot tub. When I emerge I am flushed and rosy. I smooth lotion on my arms and legs and pull on a sheer nightgown as if preparing to meet a lover, even though I don’t know if he’ll appear tonight.
I don’t even know if he’s real.
In the darkness I lie in bed, waiting to catch the first whiff of the ocean. That is how I will know he’s arrived, when I smell the sea that took him, and where his bones now rest. Hannibal lies curled up beside me, his purrs vibrating against my leg. Tonight there is no moon and only starlight glitters in the window. In the gloom, I can faintly make out the shapes of the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp.
Hannibal’s head snaps up and the cold, bracing scent suddenly engulfs me, as if a wave has roared into the room. This time there is no premonitory swirl of shadow, no slowly forming silhouette. I look up and there he is, fully formed, standing over my bed. He is silent, but I can feel his gaze stripping away the darkness between us, leaving me utterly exposed.
He reaches down to take my hand. At his touch, I rise from the bed as though magically weightless and stand before him. Clad only in my nightgown, I am shivering from both anticipation and the damp sea air.
“Close your eyes,” he commands.
I obey and wait for his next command. For something, anything to happen. Yes, I am ready.
His words are just a whisper: “Behold, Ava.”
I open my eyes and gasp in wonder. Although we must still be standing in my bedroom, I do not recognize the green velvet drapes hanging at the windows nor the chinoiserie wallpaper nor the massive four-poster bed. In the hearth a fire crackles and the light from its flames dances on the walls, gilding everything in a golden glow.
“How can this be?” I murmur. “Is this a dream?”
He presses his fingers to my lips to silence me. “Do you wish to see more?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Come.” Still holding my hand, he leads me out of the bedroom. Looking down at our entwined hands, I see lace at my wrists. Only then do I realize my flimsy nightdress has vanished; in its place is a blue gown made of shimmering silk, like the bolts of fabric that once arrived aboard The Minotaur. Surely I am dreaming. At this moment, do I slumber in my bed while dream-Ava is led out of the bedroom?
In the hallway too, everything is different. The carpet is woven with a pattern of vines, and on the walls, candles burn in brass sconces, illuminating a series of portraits I do not recognize. In silence he leads me past the paintings and opens the door to the turret staircase.
The steps are in shadow, but a sliver of light shines under the closed door above. As I place my weight on the first step I expect to hear the familiar creak, but the board is silent; the creak is yet to come, in a century that has not yet dawned. All I hear is the whisper of silk against my legs, and the thud of his boots as he leads me up the stairs. Why are we going to the turret? What awaits me there? Even if I want to retreat, I cannot; his grasp has tightened and is now inescapable. I have made my choice and am now at his mercy.
We emerge into a room bathed in candlelight.
I stare, enchanted. Mirrors hang on every wall and I see reflection after reflection of myself, a multitude of blue-gowned Avas stretching into eternity. Many times have I stood in this same room and seen carpenters’ tools and disrepair. Never had I imagined it as it is now, glittering with light, a room of mirrors and…
An alcove.
Red velvet curtains conceal the space that until last week was closed off by a wall. What lies behind those drapes?
“You are afraid,” he observes.
“No.” I swallow, and then admit the truth. “Yes.”
“Yet you still submit?”
I stare up at him. Here is the man I saw in the painting: windswept black hair, face like rough-hewn granite. But now I see more than a mere painting could reveal. There is a hungry glitter in his eyes that warns of dangerous appetites. I can still retreat. I can flee from this room, from this house.
But I don’t. I want to know what happens next.
“I submit,” I answer.
His smile sends a shiver through me. He is in control now, and I feel as naïve as sixteen-year-old Ionia, a virgin in the hands of a man whose cravings will now be revealed. With the back of his hand he strokes my face, and his touch is so gentle I close my eyes and sigh. Nothing to fear. Everything to look forward to.
He leads me to the alcove and draws aside the curtain, revealing what lies beyond: a bed, draped in black silk. But the bed is not what rivets my attention; no, it’s what dangles from each of the bed’s four oaken posts.
Leather cuffs.
He grasps my shoulders and suddenly I am falling backward, onto the bed. My dress splays out across the sheets, silk against silk, blue on shimmering black. Without a word he wraps a leather cuff around my right wrist, drawing it so tight that I have no hope of slipping free. He circles the bed to secure my left wrist, moving with inexorable purpose. For the first time I am afraid, because when I look in to his eyes, I see a man who is in complete control. There is nothing I can do now to stop what is about to happen.
He moves to the foot of the bed, sweeps up the hem of my gown, and takes hold of my right foot so suddenly that I gasp. In seconds the leather cuff is looped around my ankle and pulled tight. Three of my limbs are now restrained. Even if I want to, I cannot free myself. I am pinned and helpless as he wraps the final strap around my left ankle and secures it to the bedpost. I lie spread-eagled, my heart battering my chest, waiting for whatever comes next.
For a moment he merely stands at the foot of the bed and admires the view. His arousal is obvious, yet he makes no move and simply savors my helplessness as his gaze devours my pinned body, my rumpled dress. Not a word passes his lips, and the silence alone is exquisite torment.
He reaches into his boot and pulls out a knife.
In fear I watch him hold up the blade to the candlelight and stare at the gleam reflected in the m
etal. Without warning he grasps the neckline of my dress and slashes the fabric, keeps slashing all the way down the skirt. He yanks open the ruined dress, exposing my flesh, and tosses aside the knife. He needs no blade to threaten me; he does so with his gaze alone, his eyes promising both pleasure and punishment. I flinch as he leans over to stroke my face, his fingers sliding down my neck, my breastbone, my belly. He smiles as he reaches between my legs. “Would you have me stop?”
“No. I don’t want you to stop.” I close my eyes and sigh. “I want more. I want you.”
“Even if it makes you scream?”
I stare up at him. “Scream?”
“Is it not what you want? To be taken, to be punished?” In the flickering candlelight his smile suddenly looks cruel. Satanic. “I know what you crave, Ava. I know your darkest, most shameful desires. I know what you deserve.”
Oh god, is this really happening? Is this real?
The man who now strips off his shirt and breeches is very real indeed, and all too imposing. It is the weight of a real man I feel on top of me, a real man who pins me to the bed. My hips automatically rise to welcome him, because as fearful as I am of his power, hunger has swept me past the point of no return. He gives me no chance to brace myself; with one savage thrust he’s inside me, driving deep.
“Fight me,” he commands.
I cry out, but there is no one to hear me. No one within miles of this windswept, lonely house.
“Fight me!” I stare up into eyes lit with a raging fire. This is the game he plays. A game of conquest and submission. He does not want me to surrender; he wants me to resist. To be conquered.
I twist beneath him, bucking left and right. My struggles only arouse him and he thrusts even more deeply.
The Shape of Night Page 10