by Andre Norton
Yet he had spoken to her as if Amos Rooke were a stranger, as if he himself had had no direct knowledge of the man. Then why—why had he died denying that Augustin was a murderer—in fear of another dead man?
Persis resolutely took up the candle and lifted the latch of the door. In the portfolio which had been entrusted to her, she might find an answer. Though she had to force herself into the dark of the upper hall, shielding her candle with one hand against any puff of air, Persis could hardly bring herself to lay a hand on the latch of her uncle’s chamber. And, as she stood there, she heard the faintest of sounds.
Frozen, she glanced toward the head of the stairs. There was no breeze blowing here, that was no rustle of leaf or scrape of branch she heard. Yet she was not mistaken, there came a sound—and from the stairs. Not a footfall, rather something far less defined. Like—like the brush of a skirt edge against the banisters.
Lydia—Mrs. Pryor—? Why should either move through the night without a candle? The maids would use the other flight at the rear of the house. And they were not supposed to be here at all either, but in their cabins beyond the mound. Only Molly and Shubal had been housed in small chambers on the third floor, rooms intended really for an overflow of guests.
Persis strained to catch the faintest creak. No, she was not imagining this. There was someone coming up the front stairs. With one hand against the wall as a support (as if the paneling under her fingertips tied her to reality), the girl advanced, step by cautious step, to the head of the flight.
A moment later she could have cried out at her own stupidity. The candle she carried must show as clearly as a beacon, already giving her away to whoever moved so stealthily through the dark.
She stopped short. What had she to be afraid of? She had a perfect right to collect her uncle’s possession, confided to her care. But, as those sounds grew nearer–Nothing—nothing to see. Only the whisper sounded louder. Fear caught her in an icy vise. She leaned back, pressing herself against the wall, closing her eyes. She refused to look. She would not! Still she was aware of a—For a moment her disturbed mind could not even find a word to cover the sensation which possessed her—she was blind, near dumb with panic—but there was a presence—
Persis knew that she must open her eyes. If she did not, this fear would fill her and she would scream mindlessly. That scream already arose painfully in her throat. But if she screamed she also knew, but not how she knew, she would be utterly lost.
The hall was cold, so very cold. Yet just moments before she had felt her shawl too heavy. So cold! Persis forced open her eyes. Her candle was burning steadily, but it showed only emptiness. No, that was not quite so!
There was a glint, as if the limited radiance was caught for a second by something from which it was reflected. And that glitter moved, languidly, slowly, back and forth in the air about the height of her own breast.
Had those spots of light been at floor level, she could have told herself they marked the eyes of some animal. But these were in midair.
Voiceless, unable to move, Persis watched those small glints pass—until the dark at the other end of the hall swallowed them up. They had not been born of her imagination! And she would take oath that something had gone by her unseen, perhaps unseeing, in the hallway.
Shivering, but able now to move again, she slipped along, her shoulders scraping the wall. She would have to cross the open where that thing had passed, in order to reach her own door. For the present she could not bring herself to do that.
Her free hand caught on the latch of Uncle Augustin’s door. Still facing outward, for she could not yet turn her back on the hall, she lifted that latch, felt the door open behind her. Then she whipped inside, shutting the door with the last remnant of her strength.
Once that was closed, Persis stood, her breath ragged, hearing in her ears the pounding of her own heart. Logic and common sense began to war with her fear. The strange cold was gone, also the sound, and certainly she no longer saw those—eyes—eyes?
All houses had noises peculiar to themselves which were produced during the silences of the night. As for the glints—could those not be something like the lightning bugs she had so often seen in the dusk at her own home? Finding themselves trapped inside a house, they had risen to a higher level seeking freedom.
Yet all the time Persis fought to satisfy herself with such explanations, she knew that she was merely tamping down tightly such a fear as she had never known before. Now, resolutely, she turned away from the door. The portfolio had been on the bedside table.
She held the candle a little higher. Yes, it was still there.
The bed was smooth of cover. There was nothing here save that which she had come for. After the fashion of the South, Uncle Augustin had been already encoffined, and the sealed coffin waited in the parlor below. In the morning he would be laid to rest—far from all he had ever known, in a place where the island dead slept peacefully.
Persis, the portfolio in hand, crept back to the door. To open that again required every bit of confidence she could summon. Then, with it open, she looked up and down the hall, listened, until she could force herself to make the short journey to her own chamber.
There she latched the door quickly, threw the portfolio on the bed, and set about moving the heaviest chair in the room to blockade the entrance. Only when that was done, still breathing fast, she put the portfolio for safekeeping beneath her pillow, and blew out the candle, creeping into the wide bed, and letting the ghostly veil of the insect netting fall about her. This, gauze though it was, she welcomed now as a kind of barrier against the rest of the Leverett house.
Sheer fatigue overcame her at last and she slept uneasily, with dreams she could not remember after. A pounding awoke her abruptly. It was light and the chair she had used for a barrier was shaking as the door was shoved impatiently against its back.
“Miss Persis—!”
Molly! And what would she think about that chair? The sunlight from the window, Molly’s voice, banished the last of the night’s fears—or at least pushed them too deep into her mind to matter now.
Persis struggled through the netting, tugged the chair away in haste. But Molly’s expression of surprise made her aware explanations were necessary.
“Miss Persis—whatever—?”
“I had a nightmare, Molly. When I woke up—in the middle of the night—I thought I heard something moving out in the hall.”
“Heard something? Well, I never!” Molly set down with a decided thump the small tray she was carrying. “Miss Persis, what has gotten into you? You were never one for such fancies. I guess,” she nodded, “it is this house, what with all them stories about it. I’ll be thankful when we can pack up and go back to a proper town where there ain’t this whispering ’bout witches and haunts and such. Stay here long enough and we’ll all be believin’ in them. Now you drink up this chocolate. This is going to be a hard day and you’ll need somethin’ sustainin’ to weather it.”
Thus, delicately, she hinted of the funeral.
“Seein’ as how there’s no decent black for mourning, Miss Persis,” she continued briskly as Persis sat down and obediently drank the lukewarm contents of the cup Molly had brought her, “I made out with some changes for your white cambric. There’s a black sash for that, and black gloves. It will just have to do.”
“Thank you, Molly.” The need for proper mourning had escaped Persis until this moment, but it would never have escaped Molly who prided herself on having things properly done.
“Since you are family and a female,” the maid continued with her usual competence, “you won’t be expected to show yourself until the service. That Sukie will bring you breakfast, and the Captain said, if you favored it, they would hold the service at nine. Seems like they have no proper preacher here,” Molly sniffed. “The Captain, he’ll read the service himself. He does it, they say for all them that are drowned and come ashore. Miss Persis—”
She stopped her bustling about a
nd faced her mistress squarely. “I—” she began and then paused as if not quite sure of her words, then she hurried on, “Shubal, that poor old man’s clean tuckered out. Seems like now he’s decided he’s nothing to live for, him always havin’ been so close to Mr. Augustin. But, Miss Persis, what are we all goin’ to do?”
Persis set the chocolate cup carefully on its saucer. There was only one thing they could do, they must go ahead with Uncle Augustin’s plan to claim the estate in the Bahamas. Only she did not in the least have any idea of how to go about that.
Perhaps some lawyer in Key West would. She drew a deep breath. Molly, Shubal—neither one had lived since youth outside Uncle Augustin’s service. It was only right they should look to her now for answers. The trouble was, she did not have much of one—yet.
“We must go on to Key West as soon as possible,” she made herself say firmly. “I have Uncle Augustin’s papers. He explained to me—” she told Molly as simply as possible the tangle of family history which had brought them south.
“Amos Rooke!” an exclamation from Molly interrupted her in midsentence.
“What do you know about him?” Persis asked avidly.
The maid pursed her lips as she could do on occasion. “Well, it’s another old story, Miss Persis. You know that the master had three privateers out in 1812. He did right well with them, too. He always had a hate for the British—seeing his grandfather died in a British prison of fever and his father was killed in the war. So whenever he could, he took his revenge on them.
“They did say as how one of the ships which was took by the privateer Eagle came from the Bahamas and belonged to some kinfolk of his. And that Amos Rooke’s son was killed when it was taken. It was just a story, mind you, no proof of it that I knew. Nor did the master ever have anything to do with it personally. He never even knew about it ‘til months later. Men are killed when they go out fightin’, and it ain’t no fault but their own for being there.”
Persis was startled. If Uncle Augustin was even so remotely concerned in the death of Amos’ son—could that explain his dying cry that he was no murderer? And it might be the reason why he would not accept the first offer from Amos’ widow—though it was all so many years ago. It had nothing to do with her now, except that she was a Rooke also, and would profit by the fact that those deaths had occurred. But it made her uneasy and unhappy.
Molly seemed to sense those feelings for she said quickly:
“Now don’t you fret none ’bout claimin’ this money, Miss Persis. The old lady wouldn’t have left it in her will did she feel hard against the master. You do just what your uncle wanted. But ’bout goin’ to Key West–”
“I know—that will mean going to sea again.” Persis believed she could understand a protest against that. She did not want to think of it herself.
“Not just that, Miss Persis—though I ain’t sayin’ as how I’d relish that too much. But they do say as how the Arrow ain’t goin’ to be able to go on. Not unless they do a lot of work on her which ain’t possible right here. And the mailboat—that don’t come too often.”
“But Captain Leverett’s ship must certainly go to Key West–”
“That’s just it, Miss Persis. Right now the Captain is havin’ hard words with the Key West people. Leastwise that was what Mr. Hawkins was sayin’ only this mornin’ when he came out to the kitchen to get himself a snack. Mr. Hawkins, he’s bosun on the Nonpareil and a mighty knowledgeable man. Why, just think, Miss Persis, it turned out he was born up on the Cape not far from my pa’s place. ‘Course he went to the sea when he was twelve and ain’t never been back, no more’n I have. But we know a lot of the same people.
“Well, Mr. Hawkins says that those folks down at Key West don’t take kindly to the Captain setting up his own place hereabouts. Takes away some of their trade. They’ve been tryin’ to get him into court about it. But there ain’t nothin’ they can do—seein’ as how he bought the whole Key fair and square, and has his license for wrecking. Only when he goes to Key West they always try to start some kind of trouble to make him mad and start a fight so he don’t go there regular.”
“Then we’ll have to trust to luck,” Persis said resignedly. She shrugged on the waist of the white muslin gown. “Captain Pettigrew will have to go somewhere to see about the Arrow. If he can’t take us with him, perhaps he will take a letter to Key West. We shall have to find a lawyer there to advise us.”
She pulled the portfolio from beneath her pillow, fingering the lock doubtfully. Sooner or later she would have to open this with the small key Uncle Augustin had always worn on his watch fob. But she shrank from that task at present.
“Put this in the trunk please, Molly, down at the bottom. It is full of important papers.”
“Yes, Miss Persis.”
Then Sukie came in with a breakfast tray and Persis ate as much as she could. She was perfectly willing to accept Molly’s dictates as to what was acceptable conduct for the newly bereaved. But as she settled on a chair by the window, she tried to make a few plans.
It would seem that the best she would do was to ask her host frankly for assistance—much as she disliked the thought of that. She, Shubal, and Molly could certainly not remain here as uninvited guests, perhaps for weeks. There must be some way of reaching Key West or the outside world.
The Arrow was in the sheltered portion near the dock now. But it was plain even to a landswoman that the ship listed badly and rode ominously deep in the water. Beyond it was the Nonpareil. But the Stormy Luck was nowhere to be seen. Persis guessed that Grillon’s interview with the master of the Key had been such as sent him speedily back to sea.
Captain Leverett—since she had to depend upon his good will she must master that dislike which arose in her every time she remembered his roughness on board the Arrow. Maybe, she reluctantly admitted now, he had done his best to save her life.
But he was a wrecker and even (according to Molly) one his own kind did not accept. This pretentious house of his was filled with loot from lost ships. What kind of a man was he really?
She combed her memory for a picture of the man who had left bruises on her arms when he had torn her loose from her hold to throw her—as she believed at the time—straight into the sea. He was tall, her head had topped his shoulder by very little. And his wind-tossed hair had been streaked by the rain and so plastered to his skull she could not say whether he was fair or dark. At the time she had been only cowed by his complete assumption of authority over everything and everyone in sight. She could not even guess at his age. But she fully believed he was not a man one could warm to, even if met under less tumultuous circumstances.
She had seen him again last night when he had once more assumed full command, but she could remember very little indeed of that second meeting. Except he had not roared at her as he had the first time, but rather spoke in a dry, matter-of-fact voice which she only partially heard. That he was such a man as Uncle Augustin—though perhaps less polished—she could well believe.
And—Persis sighed—he would be the only one who could advise her now, much as she disliked admitting that. If he could not, or dared not visit Key West, certainly he would know what arrangements she must make to go there—or to whom to apply for legal aid. There must be a will among Uncle Augustin’s papers–he was too good a man of business not to leave such.
Again Persis sighed. She felt almost as tired and beaten as she had upon her first awakening in this room when she had not been sure of where she was. She was sorry for Uncle Augustin, in a vague way. But until his illness and the loss of the company, she was sure he had been happy in his own remote fashion. Somehow she was sorrier now for Shubal, and a little for herself—as well as uneasy. This was rather like having a secure and sturdy house fall away brick by brick.
At a tap at the door she started up, breathing a little faster.
“Miss Rooke?”
Persis’ breathing steadied. It was Mrs. Pryor. Why had she expected somehow to hear that d
eeper voice of authority? She went out into the hall where the housekeeper waited.
“Miss Rooke—” The repetition of her name sounded as if the formidable Mrs. Pryor was disconcerted in some way.
“I know,” Persis summoned her own courage. “Thank you, Mrs. Pryor. In the parlor, I believe?”
“Miss Persis,” Molly puffed in her haste, coming up the back stairs to catch up with Persis. In her hands she carried a tight bunch of flowers, as bright and varied in color as those pieces of patchwork she delighted in. Persis accepted the roughly made bouquet thankfully. Though she had never associated Uncle Augustin with flowers, certainly not ones of such violent hues.
The service was strange to her and she found herself shaken, moved by the loneliness of death in this far place where there was nothing of the world Uncle Augustin had always known. She found herself crying for the man she had never understood, but who had been kind to her in his remote fashion. Somehow she was glad that the words said for him were those chosen for other strangers who had also met death far from home.
She watched Captain Leverett read from a small, well-worn Bible. Yes, he was tall, and his now dry hair was sun bleached to a shade even lighter than his sister’s, showing near white against the dark tan of his skin. His eyes were a piercing gray-blue—with something about them which reminded her of Uncle Augustin. They appeared to see directly into a person, as if to read the very thoughts of one’s mind. He was not a handsome man, she decided, yet in any assembly he would be a notable one. She was grateful to him as she had not thought to be.
Just as she was grateful to those others gathered here. Dr. Veering in his rumpled white linen suit, but wearing a black stock, Lydia and Mrs. Pryor, Shubal and Molly, between whom she stood.
