The Opal-Eyed Fan

by Andre Norton

  “I will.” The truth they must certainly have. This doctor might be the best they had on the island. But surely Key West might house a better one. How far were they now from that port? Could Uncle Augustin be taken there—or could a doctor be summoned here? Persis shivered, remembering the fury of the storm. To go to sea again—

  “Thank you, Miss.” Shubal’s hand shook as he reached for the door latch. He must care a lot for Uncle Augustin, they had been together for years and years. Now the signs of his caring made her feel guilty. Uncle Augustin really meant more to Shubal than he did to her. Yet he had given her so much. Everything, another part of her mind whispered—but himself.

  “Miss Rooke–”

  Startled, Persis looked to the head of the stairs. There stood a woman of the same sturdy build as Molly, but clad with far more elegance in a gray muslin, a ribboned cap on her gray-brown hair which was dressed high in the manner of a much earlier time. Yet this style became her round, rather highly colored face better than the modern curls. She had the air of one used to giving orders and now offered her hand with assurance.

  “I am Mrs. Pryor.”

  A housekeeper perhaps, but no servant, not even what might be deemed an “upper” one, Persis deduced.

  The girl curtsied as she would to the mother of one of her friends.

  “Please, can you tell me how my uncle is?” If the doctor had shared the truth with anyone of this household, it must have been with the very competent appearing Mrs. Pryor.

  For a moment she was eyed measuringly, and then the answer came:

  “He is an old man, and one in a perilous state of health. The storm and the wreck—well, they have not been good for him. But I have seen many recoveries which were unexpected. One does not go until one’s time comes, and he is fighting—” Her words were far from reassuring.

  “The doctor—he—?” Persis did not know how to put into plain language a question concerning his competence.

  But Mrs. Pryor seemed to divine what she could not bring herself to ask.

  “Dr. Veering is a very good physician. Having a tendency toward lung disorder, as a young man he went to stay several years in Panama. Some time ago he came here and began to experiment with plants, to see how many of the useful tropical ones could be grown this far north. Captain Leverett has fostered his project and given him Verde Key for his garden. But he lives on Lost Lady, and we are lucky. You can accept that he knows his calling well.”

  “Thank you—” Persis was a little subdued. Mrs. Pryor’s unassailable dignity was having the same quelling effect on her as Miss Pickett’s had had—reducing one to the status of a schoolgirl. This state of affairs she began to resent.

  “Now, my dear Miss Rooke—” The housekeeper became as brisk as Miss Pickett when she was about to order someone to do something for “her own good.” “Why not go down to the veranda—there is luncheon waiting. And since the storm has blown itself out, it is quite pleasant there.”

  Persis’ inner reaction was the same as it had been to Miss Pickett’s suggestions—to do just the opposite. But that was only silly childishness. So she went.

  Her journey, short as it was, through the lower floor of the house proved (to her surprise) that Captain Leverett’s residence could match any in the better part of New York. A wealth of furnishings, and the thick carpets were outstanding. Wrecker’s loot, Persis thought disdainfully, though she looked about with a curiosity she could not control.

  Since her knowledge of what went on in the Keys (rank piracy, some of the shipowners her uncle had known wrathfully termed it) was founded mainly on their conversation, she had little liking for what she saw. It was true that a wrecker must be licensed by the government, that he must agree on rescue fees with the captain of the unfortunate vessel he boarded, and he was further bound by the law to hold legal auction of the cargo. But the fact remained that he prospered from the ill luck of others—richly, if this house was any indication.

  At least the wreckers now operated under American law, and those from the Bahamas (about whom there were some dark stories) were forbidden these waters. Though there were always rumors of lure lights and the like to bring ships into danger.

  Persis went out on the veranda and stopped short. She had forgotten the mound foundation of the house she had sighted from her chamber window. Now she seemed to be on a hill from which one could look down on a sea of green growth and white, shell-strewn sand.

  Several chairs made of cane stood by a table on which the dishes were covered by a netting not unlike that used to curtain the beds. And seated on one of those chairs was a young girl who stared at Persis with something near to open rudeness.

  Her hair, of a very pale shade of gold, was very elaborately dressed, the upper knot based by a band of flowers. And her complexion had manifestly been well guarded from the glare of the southern sun. But her brows and lashes were dark, giving an arresting vividness to her features which Persis thought a little bold. There was very little color in her cheeks, but her small mouth, with its pouting lower lip, was moistly red as if she had been recently sucking a cinnamon sweetmeat.

  Now she smiled, her beflowered head a little atilt, her dark-fringed eyes narrowed.

  “I never did like that gown. The color is certainly more yours than mine.” Her frank appraisal was delivered in a way which suggested there might be something just a little common in being able to wear lemon muslin to any advantage.

  “I have to thank you very much for the loan of it,” Persis returned with the same briskness. She must watch her tongue. However, she did not greatly warm to Miss Lydia Leverett, even on this very short acquaintance. And it was not like her to take such an instant aversion to anyone.

  “Welcome to Lost Lady Key—” Lydia waved a hand to the chair opposite her own. “At least the storm is over. If you sit here, you will have your back to the sea. Doubtless you have seen enough of that for the present!”

  There was something about Miss Leverett’s disregard of all social formalities and niceties which seemed to put Persis on the defensive.

  “Such an odd name—Lost Lady.” She seized upon the first subject she could think of, not wishing to discuss the wreck.

  “Not when you know the story. There was a lady and she was lost—or disappeared,” Lydia returned. “She is our ghost now. Be warned. Some say she brings ill luck to those natives unfortunate enough to meet her.

  “This was a pirate hold a hundred years ago. In fact, the foundation of this house was part of a fort built by Satin-shirt Jack. And before him there was the mound—that was made by the Old Ones.” Lydia was watching her guest, a queer little quirk about her lips as she paused. “Some of the islanders tell tales about them—all blood and sacrifice. They were supposed to be giants able to shoot one of their arrows straight through a Spaniard’s breastplate.

  “But the Spanish finally killed them all—unless that dirty old witch, Askra, is really one of them. She looks as if she is old enough to be so, goodness knows. Then the pirates under Jack raided the Spanish and killed all of them—except the lady. She was the Commandant’s wife or daughter or something like that, so Jack claimed her as part of his share. Until he was found dead and she was gone—

  “The Spanish came back again—or so it went. Do I frighten you, Miss Rooke, with all these bloody tales? This is a place which should be haunted—enough has happened here. And the islanders swear that the ghosts do walk.”

  Persis smiled. If Lydia thought such childish stories were in the least alarming, she must have a very low impression of Persis’ intelligence. “Many old places have odd stories about them,” she answered composedly. “Even in New York.”

  “New York!” Lydia sat up straighter. “How I would like to go back to New York! Indeed, visit almost any place apart from this one!” She arose abruptly and went to stand by the rail of the veranda, looking frowningly out over Lost Lady Key.

  2

  “Have you been to New York then?” Persis eyed her hostes
s with some impatience. She was hungry, but it was not polite to help herself without invitation.

  Lydia’s full skirts swirled out as she turned abruptly. “Me—in New York?” She laughed angrily. “I have been to school in Charlestown, and to Key West, and that is all—since Crewe chose to come here. But I was born in New York—only now I can’t remember it at all.”

  She came back to the table and twitched away the net with a vigor which matched her sharp tone.

  “To be imprisoned here—it is enough to make one see ghosts—and have all sorts of strange fancies when one is bored.”

  She ate only a few mouthfuls of bread spread with a thick conserve. But Persis made a healthy meal of biscuits, some fruit that was strange to her, and several slices of ham cut paper thin but nonetheless tasty. There was a custard, too, which had an unfamiliar flavor but which she relished.

  Lydia put her elbows on the table, supported her chin on her clasped hands, and fastened her gaze on Persis.

  “Tell me about New York,” she commanded.

  Persis had just started to speak when she was interrupted by a loud braying noise. In a second Lydia was on her feet, heading for the door of the house.

  “Ship sighted—” She gave only that small bit of information as she darted within.

  Catching some of her hostess’ excitement, Persis followed. Lydia was already near the top of the stairs, her skirts gathered up in both hands so she could climb faster.

  Three flights they climbed, the third much narrower and more steep—to emerge on a flat space open to the roof, railed about. Lydia jerked a spyglass out of a box fastened against that rail. With it to one eye she peered seaward.

  “He dared it!” her voice was high with excitement. “That’s the Stormy Luck coming in, it is!” She was smiling now. “Oh, won’t Crewe be furious! I can hardly wait to see his face when he finds her here.”

  “Is that your brother’s ship—?” Persis was puzzled.

  “No. His is the Nonpareil. They’re trying to get the Arrow off that reef. This is Ralph’s ship—Ralph Grillon. He’s from the Bahamas.”

  “But I thought,” Persis shaded her eyes, but without the aid of a glass all she could make out was a distant shadow, “that the Bahama wreckers did not come into these waters—”

  Lydia made an impatient sound. “The sea isn’t fenced in like a field. And the Bahama men were here long before us. They have their rights, even though people like Crewe are too high-handed to credit them with such. Ralph takes the Stormy Luck where he wants—and it can show its stern well away from any cutter out of Key West that tries to make trouble. Anyway, Ralph—” now her smile was both amused and sly, “has a special reason for coming here.” Without offering the glass to Persis she fitted it back in its case.

  “But even he can’t make the wind stronger,” she continued. “It may be several hours before—” Then she paused, looking no longer to the sea but down to what lay immediately below the house. And her smile vanished in a distinct scowl.

  Persis followed the other’s gaze. The mound on which the house had been erected might be ground linked with the rest of the key on the opposite side, but here water lapped at its foot and there was a channel, leading straight out to sea. The channel opening was flanked by the wharf still piled high with bales and boxes.

  A small boat had been launched from the wharf, two men at its oars, and it was at that Lydia stared. She made a fist which she brought down with some force on the railing.

  “Johnny Mason!” she spat the name. “He heard the conch horn and he’s off to tell Crewe, the meddler!” She shrugged. “Let him. It won’t profit him—or Crewe any.”

  Lydia whisked to the top of the ladderlike stairs which Persis had not noticed were so very steep when she had climbed them. Now she descended with caution, guessing Lydia to be lost in her own thoughts and forgetful of her. However, in the upper hall, the other girl paused to look over her shoulder.

  That look of discontent, faint as it had been, was gone. Her smile no longer was either angry or sly.

  “You asked about the Lost Lady,” she dismissed the subject of the Stormy Luck and its captain, rather to Persis’ bewilderment. “I’ll have time to show you the fan—the ghost fan itself.”

  Now she linked arms with Persis—as if they were the best and closest of friends, leaving Persis a little disturbed at this swift change—and drew her into a bedroom which flanked the stair at the head of the hall.

  “Sukie,” Lydia spoke impatiently to the black maid who was folding body linen away in the drawers of a magnificently carved chest, “you can leave that. Go tell Mam Rose that we’ll have company for dinner, special company. We want the Napoleon china and the best of silver. Mind now!”

  “Yes’m.” Sukie disappeared, leaving some disorder in the room which, Persis suspicioned, was of Lydia’s initial making. Her hostess was rummaging in what looked to be an old sea chest, talking as she hunted:

  “You won’t get any of the islanders to touch the thing; they all say it’s the worst kind of luck. Crewe found it in this—” she prodded the side of the chest with her toe, “all buried under some rocks—what was left of the old pirate fort. I begged him for it. Sukie and the rest know I have it. They think I can ill-wish them or some such foolishness, so they step carefully when I give the orders. It’s a handy thing. Ah, here it is!”

  She came into the full light of an open window carrying a carved box which she opened to take out a fan, spreading its sticks to their fullest extent in the sunlight.

  Persis had seen the brisé fans of intricately carved ivory which the China merchants sometimes offered for sale. And those made in the same fashion of pierced sandalwood, to be used in summer—the perfume of the wood was supposed to be restorative on a very warm day. But this was like and yet unlike either. It was made of carved sticks strung together with ribbon, yes. But the wood of the sticks was dead black. And the heavier end pieces each bore the head of a cat in high relief, the eyes of which were fashioned of shimmering dark blue stones. While the inner carving was again that of cats stalking among grasses, sleeping, sitting.

  “Those are what they call black opals,” Lydia indicated the eye stones. “There was a jeweler in Key West who told Crewe that. And he thinks this may be near two or three hundred years old—but he was not sure whether it was made in China or Italy. But it’s magic—the Lost Lady is supposed to have used it to kill Satin-shirt Jack, and then fanned herself out of existence afterward.” Lydia laughed. “Go ahead, take it; these cats neither scratch nor bite—at least they never have me!”

  Persis put out her hand with some reluctance. The fan was strange, even though it was beautiful. But it gave her an uncanny feeling—even though she did not believe in its supposed ill luck. She held it close to study the cats. They had—she searched for the right term—a rather unnatural look. In fact, as she held the fan open she had an odd fancy that they were all staring at her measuringly. Quickly she closed the fan and handed it back to Lydia.

  “It is indeed unusual,” she commented and knew that Lydia was watching her closely as if expecting some reaction to mark Persis as superstitious as the islanders.

  “Yes,” Lydia dropped it back in its box and, returning that to the chest, made no move to pick up the garments she had spilled out during her search. “Oddly enough, even though this is always here, when she walks the ghost holds it in her hand. I find the idea of a ghost fan amusing. Now, I must find Mrs. Pryor. If I don’t coax her a bit, she won’t bring out the best wine—Come along if you like.”

  Persis shook her head. “I must see about my uncle. Thank you.”

  When she tapped on the door of that chamber Shubal opened it instantly, as if he had been anxiously awaiting her.

  “Miss Persis—please—the master is awake. And he’s asking for you.”

  She should have been here earlier. Why had she let Lydia interfere with her sense of duty? Persis hurried to the side of the bed. It was strange to be looking down inst
ead of up into those wide eyes. For even in his old age, Uncle Augustin was a tall man who, until his illness, had held himself confidently straight.

  “I am here, sir. I am sorry I was not earlier—”

  He raised a hand as if by great effort. “No matter—” His voice, though hoarse, still had its remote, courteous tone.

  “There is something I must explain to you, Persis.” He stopped between words to draw puffing breaths she felt uneasy hearing. “We are always vain of our strength, unconsidering of our weakness. I—perhaps I have made a mistake in undertaking this, even a grievous error. Yet looking back I cannot see how I might have chosen differently.

  “You know that the failure of Rooke and Company seriously compromised those funds which are our support. I might have been able to redeem those losses had not time been my enemy. I am too old, which is a hard thing to admit.”

  His straight gaze dared her to make any comment of sympathy.

  “Three months ago—” he paused and coughed. Shubal nearly elbowed Persis aside, then that hand raised again to wave the servant away with such vigor that he drew back. “I received a communication of some import. We have, as do all families, our secrets. Doubtless you have never heard of Amos Rooke.” He did not wait for any answer from her.

  “During the days of our Revolution, my father had a younger brother, Amos. He sought out strange company, mingling with the young British officers who were on duty in occupied New York. In other words, he declared himself a ‘loyalist.’ When the British army at last evacuated the city, he gathered together quite a sum in funds, some of it stolen from his own countrymen. With this he sailed to the West Indies.

  “However, a certain portion of those funds did not come from traitorous dealings with the enemy; rather, they had been entrusted to him by his widowed mother, meant to be the marriage portion of his sister and for her own support in her declining years.