“Has she renewed her courtship?” She was careful to tread lightly. Whatever had occurred, it had him terribly wrought up.
“Not me. No, the damned Union Navy, is all. Listen, I know they've been a help to some of us, and I know Mother likes them, but when there's fighting going on we ought to be siding with Virginia. And now for her to be prancing all about the town with one of them!”
His words struck her as though someone had hit her hard on the ears with their open hands. One at a time she replayed them. Beau was oblivious to her reaction. Anger was beginning to consume him again. Union navy. Prancing all about town. Even as she told herself that he could be speaking about any one of the sailors, she knew who it was. In an instant she understood the meaning of the note and the reason for his absence. She knew what would happen next, as it always happened when a Bagwell wanted something. She was certain that Beau was still unaware of all that had taken place between her and Sam. She needed to keep it that way; if he knew, his reaction would be all too predictable. Her question was measured and quiet.
“Which one?”
“That carpenter, who was here. That one.”
She was certain that he was not referring to Ethan, but she had to ask.
“Mr. Platt?”
An eternity passed.
“No, the other one. Dreher.”
Her face went numb. She looked away from her brother, fighting to control her expression. He could not be allowed to see what she felt. Her feet were frozen to the ground. I am engaged elsewhere...I do not know for how long...perhaps... His intent was clear now; how simple it was. Would she ever see him again?
Momentarily, her calmer nature prevailed. Beau had not described the incident that put him into such a state. Like someone about to be struck, she held her breath and braced herself for the pain. “What did you see in town, Beau?”
Beau was angry, to be sure. By his nature he was not a man to care about his effect on others, but had he known how he was about to hurt his sister he would have refused to speak a word.
He did not know. So he told her what he had seen, and heard, about Nancy Bagwell and Sam Dreher.
Beau fished from time to time on a single-masted buckeye called the Jenny. She was a broken-down old thing owned by an even older fisherman named Elijah Bunting. Bunting knew the channel well. He was always able to find flounder, which moved far offshore in the fall. Edmund Bagwell liked to serve flounder at home; he also kept it on the menu at his Atlantic Hotel. In autumn, when the fish grew scarce, he would buy any flounder the Jenny brought in.
Beau had crewed for Bunting that week, returning in late afternoon with decent catches, including big flounder. Bunting would deliver some of the catch to the Bagwell home personally. The crew would carry the remainder to the kitchen door of the Atlantic.
Each morning Bunting would entertain his crew with a new story about what was going on in the Bagwell residence. It seemed that one of the young sailors from the Louisiana was working there, doing some carpentry, but also keeping company with Nancy, the daughter. Every time Bunting would go to the house the two of them were together, chatting away. The carpenter was working, all right, but talking up a storm with the young lady as well, or so it seemed to Bunting. He didn't hear the actual conversation; his hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but it was his strong impression that the two were getting along quite well. They conversed, Nancy Bagwell would laugh, and they would talk some more.
They looked pretty comfortable, it seemed to him, and they were usually alone as well. Someone ought to be keeping a better watch over the girl. Bunting was amused by it all. Beau was not.
Towards the end of the week it was Beau's job to deliver part of the catch to the Atlantic Hotel. He carried the basket of fish to the kitchen door and asked for the cook, who was out on an errand. He set his basket on the counter to wait. The door that led out of the kitchen was propped open, allowing a good view of the dining room. Beau wasn't trying to look, but he could not help but see.
There, at a private table, sat Nancy Bagwell and Sam Dreher.
Though he could easily identify the two of them, framed in the open doorway like a painting in a museum, there was much that Beau could not see. It was not obvious, for example, that the table had been set for three people, not two. Beau didn’t notice that neither food nor drink had yet been served. He did not realize that the couple had just arrived.
Other things were also impossible for him to see. He could not see Edmund and Arinthia Bagwell in the office of the hotel manager as he told them about the worsening condition of his wife, who lay gravely ill at that moment. He could not hear Arinthia request that Nancy wait in the dining room. He also could not hear Edmund Bagwell ask Sam Dreher to remain with his daughter for a few moments until her parents could join her. He could not feel Sam's discomfort at finding himself alone with Nancy in the dining room of a hotel, nor could he feel Nancy's odd sense of delight. He could only feel his own rising anger.
When Nancy Bagwell turned her head and caught his eye, a tiny and familiar smile came to her lips. It was a smile he had learned to dislike. She did not acknowledge Beau, but made certain that he knew she had seen him before directing her attention back to her companion. For the moment at least, Nancy was overjoyed at the turn of events.
Nancy knew that even Beau had the good sense not to make a scene in the hotel. She also calculated that he would not be able to stand for very long in the doorway staring at her and Sam. By the time her father and mother arrived, just a short time afterwards, Beau Daisey had vanished. Edmund Bagwell shook Sam Dreher's hand, thanked him for his attentiveness to his daughter, and sent him on his way. The little family sat down to their meal, two-thirds of it entirely unaware that any damage had been done, and the other third already eager to see how the ripples she had created might spread.
Beau finished his story, to the extent that he knew it. In his mind, the tale was told. He had reached his own conclusion about the loyalties of Nancy Bagwell and the character of Union sailors. For a while, his tirade continued, though Anna heard only disjointed snippets. Right there in public! In a time of war....her family's hotel....his Captain should be informed... At the last, she jerked forward as if startled out of sleep. “No, Beau, stop,” she shouted. “Let the Bagwell family deal with their own business. What is Nancy Bagwell to you?”
Beau was caught up short. “She is nothing to me, sister, nothing.”
“Then let this be, Beau! Let the Bagwells concern themselves with it!” She swept past him into the house, all her strength absorbed in keeping herself from bursting into tears in front of her brother.
Anna would lie for many hours on her bed that day, weeping to herself.
What will be taken from me now?
Each day she passed girls with fathers, fathers whom God had allowed to remain upon the earth beside their daughters. Such was not her life. She had been asked to accept it, and she had made her peace with it.
Each day she saw young people in love, married people and courting couples, fondness and devotion glowing in their faces as they turned to one another. She yearned to look into such a face. She had resigned herself to waiting patiently, fearing that it should never appear. Her solace lay with the sea, the wild ponies, and the birds of the air. She would be content to ride, and to draw with Elizabeth. She would pay no heed to the opinions of Chincoteaguers, who thought her odd and avoided her. Her hope was in the future.
That future had seemed so close. She had reached out it to it with the full length of her arms and was about to touch it with her fingertips.
What will be taken from me?
Mary brought food to her, and sat by her bed to console her, though she did not know the source of her sorrow. Anna could not speak to her. What protection had she found in her mother's love? From what had it shielded her?
Finally, as the thin moon rose, she fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Outside, the basket of eggs lay forgotten on the ground. Mary retrieved the basket
the next morning, emptied by the night-foraging creatures of the marsh.
What was not closely guarded was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Visitor
Love comes at a price. It peels away the covering that wraps our hearts. The covering protects us as the wood of a young tree is protected: outside is the rough bark, then the softer inner bark. Beneath that lies the sapwood, where the tree's lifeblood flows. Finally, deeply hidden, is the precious heartwood, strong and enduring.
Children shield themselves with laughter and foolishness, cast off as they grow. Beneath that is joy. If joy is ripped away, as it should not rightly be, or worn away, as it commonly is, there is hope. It is a thin layer: resilient, but subject to drought. If it should wither and die there remains the sanctuary of work, where we retreat for strength when we must persevere or perish.
Joy passed from Anna Daisey's life the night John Grinnald brought her father home. As she sat with her father, pale and still, it slipped from around her like sand pulled from underfoot by a strong surf.
Hope remained. Though she was young, she knew her own mind unusually well. If God wished to send her blessings, she was prepared. If He did not, she was also prepared. In any case she had her mother, her home, and her work. She would persevere.
She had taken Sam Dreher for such a blessing. As days passed and Sam did not return, her worst fears were confirmed. He had been a mirage, a shimmering of heat over the sand, washed from the air by a sudden shower. Real things remained—things that she could touch. She held tightly to them, and they comforted her. The skiff was hers again. She was grateful to him for that at least. She rowed out into the creeks of the marsh and drew for hours.
One morning as the sun began to rise she covered herself in a woolen shawl and stepped into her rubber boots. She wrapped a piece of cornbread in a cloth and set out to launch the skiff for Assateague. She would go to the big pool where the snow geese had begun to gather. She hurried against the chill, head bowed. Rowing would warm her. She opened the doors of the shed.
Out of the shadows stepped Sam Dreher. He was smiling.
Her surprise was displaced in an instant by anger. “Mr. Dreher,” she cried out. “Please leave at once.”
The smile fell from his face. “Anna!”
“You no longer have any place here.”
“Anna, I--”
“No place, Mr. Dreher, believe me!”
His shoulders fell. His face was a mask of bewilderment. “Ethan told me you received my note.”
“I did, Mr. Dreher. I have it in a drawer, if it is of some use to you. It is surely of no use to me. I will retrieve it for you.” She spun on her heel and turned towards the house, pulling the shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
He pursued her. “No, Anna! No! Did you not understand my intentions?”
She whirled about to face him, her face pale and hard as marble, her chest heaving with each breath. “No, I admit that I did not at the time, Mr. Dreher, but afterwards I understood them very well. Now please leave me.” Her hands gripped the shawl as if to tear it.
Sam felt the earth dropping from beneath him. As if by its own will, his hand reached out to her. Slowly he laid it on Anna's arm. She did not move away from him. She did not know why she did not.
He had no words. He had only hope that she would stay. Please, God, he thought. “Anna Daisey,” he said, finally, his voice unsure. “I have come here only to be with you.”
She did shake his hand away, then, and turned to face the sunrise. “And you are most unwelcome.”
“I would never have left you alone, with all my heart.”
She glared at him. “You take me to be a very foolish girl, Mr. Dreher. A girl whose trust is to be scorned, a girl who can be cast aside for a handful of lace, or a meal at the Atlantic Hotel!” Her eyes were like flint. “Do not deceive yourself, Mr. Dreher.”
It was as if she were offering him some Sphinx-like riddle, a puzzle of words that he must solve or perish. There was no sense in it. He could hardly deny a charge he could not begin to understand. He knew her to be fair, and above all, kind; her anger could spring only from deep conviction.
“Anna,” he said. “There is no deception in me.”
She was motionless.
“If I am deceiving you, if I have ever deceived you, you need not ask me again to leave.”
She walked quickly into the shed. He followed.
“When I wrote to you, I wanted to say more. I did not dare.”
Her voice was almost a whisper. “You did not write to me about Nancy Bagwell.”
“No, Anna, nothing could be written that would be understood by someone who might happen to see the note. Someone from the ship, or from here in the town, who might betray us. I have been less than honest with everyone but you and Ethan. We have spent these days together without anyone's knowledge or consent. No one may know of it. That was the reason I could say so little.”
“And you could say nothing of Nancy Bagwell?”
He was puzzled still.
“The Bagwells requested that I work in their home. There was nothing to be said. The work lasted for days, Anna. I could not leave them to come here.”
She smoldered. “They were pleasant days, then? In her company?”
Like the prow of a huge and menacing ship emerging from a thick fog, her meaning began to take shape in his mind. “Be patient with me, please, Anna. I can only tell you truthfully that her company was unpleasant but unavoidable.” He described his days at the Bagwells, the inescapable presence of Nancy, and his unwilling partnership in her conversations.
His words rang true. This was the Nancy that Anna knew, in every detail.
“And your dinner?”
“We did not have dinner together.”
“At the Atlantic Hotel. Your meal with her.”
“She dined with her parents at the Atlantic Hotel, a number of days ago. I was on my way back to my ship, but they detained me to discuss my work.”
“She was not with her parents, Mr. Dreher, but with you.”
His thoughts raced back to the day he had walked with them to the hotel. He had been in the building only briefly. Arinthia Bagwell had insisted that he accompany them. They entered the hotel together. He left alone. What in the name of heaven.....
He remembered Nancy Bagwell's smile.
He had lingered only a few minutes there. Edmund Bagwell was speaking with someone in the hotel office. At Bagwell’s request, he sat at the table in the dining room with Nancy, very much ill at ease. She smiled at him with such satisfaction, as if smiling at some private joke. He was about to ask why when her mother and father entered the room. He thought that the room was empty save for two of them. Unseen eyes must have observed them.
He could only tell her plainly what had occurred, in the desperate hope that she would see the truth in it. Slowly, step by step, he did, as carefully as if fitting two planks together.
She listened.
He finished. A heavy silence fell upon them.
“I have caused you great pain, Anna. I did not want to risk discovery by trying to come here, or by writing to you again. What I did has caused the very separation I feared so much. I cannot hope that you will forgive me.” He hung his head, feeling only despair.
She rushed to him and fell against his chest, sobs shaking her body. He embraced her tightly, his arms enclosing her, his hands cradling her head as her tears fell onto his jacket. Her sobbing made him ache.
At last she fell silent. Her breathing slowed. She held the shawl to her damp eyes and then looked full into his face.
“I knew you better than that, Sam Dreher,” she said. “The fault is mine. I knew you better.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her, the stillness all around them, the chill air forgotten. He was a blessing to her once again, and she a blessing to him; a gift, carelessly misplaced, then found again, and all the more joyfully given. They held each other, not moving or thinking.
Each would have been content if life had ended, or continued on for eternity, exactly as it was. At last they broke their kiss, embracing each other, arms entwined.
Sam spoke, finally. “Where were you bound for so early today, Anna?” She looked into his eyes.
“Assateague.”
“May I...” She did not allow him even to finish his question.
“Let us be underway quickly, while no one is about.” A few steps took them to the creek where the sneak skiff was moored. He knelt amidships and settled the oars into their locks. Anna perched behind the cockpit, knees tucked under the coaming. “I'll show you the way,” she said. Sam wrapped his fingers around the grips of the oars. His long arms and powerful back flexed the blades as they pushed off from the dark mud of the bank.
Sam’s long servitude as the Bagwells' personal carpenter was complete. The family as a whole was satisfied with his work, though Nancy was felt cheated in a strange way. Captain Sharpe was exceptionally happy.
Sam was free, at least for now.
The future was a cipher, full of dangers. For today at least, he could be with Anna Daisey. They had today, by God's grace and good fortune, and they would hold on to it until the setting sun ripped it from their fingers. He had so nearly lost her through his own wretched judgment. He had been so careful not to leave any trail—not to send another note, not to sign his name, not to provide any detail of what had detained him so long. It was no wonder that she had misunderstood his intentions so horribly. How could she have felt otherwise? In his zeal to preserve the treasure he had found, he had very nearly destroyed it. He would not endanger it again, whatever the consequences might be. He rowed as a free man, unencumbered by concern for anything but Anna's heart. The blades of his oars skimmed the dark water. They flew towards the Assateague channel.
The Sea is a Thief Page 11
