“You need to catch your breath,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable in here.”
We left the elegance of polished mahogany, of fine linen and silver, and went into the smaller room I had noted the first time I had seen Ian Pryott. Here books crowded the shelves and a fire burned cheerily in a narrow grate. Near a window stood a desk heaped with papers, books, and writing materials—undoubtedly to do with his work of recording Bascomb & Company history.
He brought a chair upholstered in yellow damask and seated me before the fire. It was a lady’s chair, small with a gracefully rounded rosewood frame, and it seemed out of place in this room of mahogany and leather and masculine simplicity. As if it might have been borrowed from a drawing room for the comfort of feminine visitors. As I was later to learn, it was Laurel’s favorite chair.
My impromptu host remained standing, an elbow resting upon the white marble mantelpiece near the inevitable model of a sailing ship under glass. Here the fire seemed to burn with less exuberance than did the huge, old-fashioned fire in Captain Obadiah’s room. The very contrast was somehow relaxing and I realized for the first time the strain I had been under ever since my arrival at Bascomb’s Point. My hands, as I held them toward the fire, were shaking a little and once more I felt close to tears. Ian Pryott’s gray eyes missed little. He went to a table, poured me a glass of wine, and held it by the slender stem until I took it and sipped a little.
“There,” he said, “that’s better. The color’s coming back into your cheeks. The old man has given you a bad time, I’m sure.”
This was the first person in the Bascomb household who had been truly kind to me, who wanted nothing of me. I sipped more of the wine and set the glass on the small table beside me. Then I burst ridiculously into tears.
FOUR
Ian Pryott leaned against the mantel and watched me weep into a scrap of handkerchief. I was accustomed to being consoled when I wept over the most inconsequential matters. But this man made no further effort to comfort me. At length I grew ashamed of my tears and stole a look at him, to surprise a curious expression upon his face. It was a look that seemed inquiring, wryly questioning. It was not at all a look that said he liked and admired me, or even that he was sorry for me. Apparently I had been mistaken in thinking him kindly inclined toward my plight.
I dried my eyes and straightened in my chair, ready to face my problems again. After all, I wanted pity from no one.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel better now.”
“Would you like to tell me what caused the captain’s upset?” he asked, ignoring my apology.
I had no hesitation about telling him and he listened with that faintly sardonic smile touching his mouth. What I related about the appearance of the bearded man did not surprise him.
“Old sea dogs are always turning up out of the past to call on the captain,” he said. “Some of them just want to yarn awhile about the old days. But in his time the captain was one of the most hated ship’s masters on the China run, and there are still those who bear him a grudge. When they come back to pay him off, they have to be sent about their business. Brock and Lucifer will take care of him if he’s not wanted about.”
I shivered. “That dreadful, ugly dog!”
“Lucifer is all of that,” Ian Pryott agreed. “Since you would scarcely meet the animal while he was alone, I presume you’ve also met his master?”
I did not want to talk about my meeting with Brock McLean and I left the words a statement, rather than a question. “The captain told me you are writing a history of Bascomb & Company,” I said. “That must mean the history of Captain Obadiah as well. Will you put in what you’ve just mentioned about his being hated by some of his crews?”
“Of course. He’d not want it different. No weakling ever made a good clipper ship captain. To get the speed he needed, a captain had to ask everything of both his ship and his men. He had to know to the last square inch how much sail a ship could carry in the teeth of a storm, and he never hesitated to send his men aloft at the last minute, no matter what the weather. Those clipper sailors were a tough and rugged crew. They needed a master strong enough to handle them.”
“My father was a clipper ship captain,” I offered proudly.
“Yes, I know.”
“Yet I’ve never seen a gentler man.”
Ian Pryott smiled and left the subject. “What are you going to do now, Miss Miranda Heath? I’ve heard about the captain’s plans for you.”
I gave my answer quickly. “I’ve already told the captain I won’t marry as he wants me to.”
Ian Pryott seemed surprised. “Do you think he’ll accept such an answer as final?”
“What else can he do? I mean to leave as quickly as I can. I want to catch the next possible train away from Scots Harbor.” I leaned toward the man at the mantel, suddenly eager. “Will you help me? Can you tell me about the trains and help me to get away?”
He shrugged slightly. “Perhaps I might. But you’d only have to come back. The captain will never let you get away now. The sooner you face that, the sooner you can take steps to save yourself. Though not, I think, by running away.”
“Save myself?”
His fair eyebrows lifted slightly and I knew well enough what he meant: save myself from Brock McLean. This I intended to do, of course.
“Mr. McLean likes me no better than I like him,” I said heatedly. “There can be no question of marrying him—ever.”
Again Ian Pryott surprised me. He bent toward me and put a forefinger beneath my chin, tilting my face to the light.
“It’s a good thing Brock is too much shut up in his own prison to look out and see what is being offered him. It might be the worse for you if he looked your way. Perhaps the worse for him too.”
I did not wince from his finger or his studying gaze, though I did not understand what he meant. After a moment he dropped his hand and took a turn about the room away from me. I felt suddenly uneasy, as though this man might know something that I did not, as though he withheld something from me. His next words surprised me further.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll help you get away. There’s a train tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. I’ll get you aboard it if that’s what you want. I don’t know that it will do you much good, but perhaps you had better try.”
“Why does the captain want this marriage?” I asked. “The fact that there was once a partnership between the three families has no meaning now. That is a sentimental reason and he doesn’t seem a sentimental man.”
Ian Pryott returned to the hearth and stood looking into the fire as he considered his answer. “Perhaps Captain Obadiah is more sentimental than you’d suppose. For another thing, he likes his own way and he can never brook opposition. Nor does he ever forget a defeat. Nathaniel Heath is the only man who ever bested him. Captain Obadiah wanted Carrie Corcoran for himself. But in the end she made another choice. Now you are going to pay for what your mother did. You’re not only your father’s daughter, you’re Carrie’s daughter as well—the daughter of Obadiah’s one true love, because of whom he never married in his younger days. Now he’s answering Nathaniel, and Carrie too, by bringing you here. He means to tie you into the Bascomb fortunes through your marriage to Brock.”
“But he can’t do that!” I cried. “I won’t let him. I understand now why my father didn’t want me to come to Scots Harbor. Were you here when my father visited the captain? Did you meet him?”
“Briefly,” Ian Pryott said. “He was closeted with Obadiah most of the time. They had a few strong words that made the walls reverberate.”
“Did Brock McLean meet him?” I asked.
Ian shook his head, unsmiling. “Captain Obadiah saw to it that Brock was sent away when he knew your father was coming.” Again there was that faintly evasive look, as if something were being withheld from me.
I pressed him further. “What will happen if the captain dies? Won’t the money and control of the business go to Broc
k anyway, whether he marries me or not?”
“I should think it would go to the captain’s wife.”
“Lien? That would put everyone’s nose out of joint,” I said, taking some pleasure in the thought.
“It would indeed.”
“What is she really like—this Chinese woman? The captain said you taught her English.”
“Perhaps I helped. She’s quick and intelligent. She went almost faster than I could lead the way.”
“My father hadn’t told me that she was Chinese, but he hinted that she had a hard time in this house. Mrs. McLean seems to resent her presence.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Mrs. McLean has never discovered that her own particular culture is not necessarily the center of the world. For the Bascombs and the McLeans Scots Harbor, the company, and Bascomb’s Point are at the heart of the universe. All roads must return to this hub.”
“My father wasn’t like that,” I said. “He always wanted me to read and learn about other people and places. He wanted me to respect the right of others to look at things in a different way. Since I could not travel abroad in reality, he saw to it that I traveled in books.”
For the first time Ian Pryott smiled at me with no wry twist. “Good for Cap’n Nat. But this would make you a hard pill for the others to swallow. If you stayed.”
“If I were going to stay I’d like to be friends with Lien,” I told him. “I’ve never known a Chinese person.”
“She’s not easy to know, though I’ve tried to stand on her side. At least I’ve taken the trouble to learn more about her than Mrs. McLean has.”
“Lien frightened me this afternoon,” I said. “She brought out a dreadful looking knife and went through some sort of ceremony by offering it to the captain.”
“The Malay cutlass? She must be furious with him.”
“I felt she disliked me,” I said. “She wanted him to tell me the truth, but I could sense her intense dislike for me all the time I was in the room. Why should she feel that way?”
Ian had turned to his desk and he stood fingering papers upon it idly. “Why shouldn’t she? If the captain marries you to Brock and changes his will, she’ll be left with only her dower rights.”
I pondered the logic of this. “Perhaps that would be the best way, after all. How could she run the business, or manage the captain’s wealth?”
Ian was suddenly impatient and I glimpsed again the mocking facet of his character that left me uneasy. After apparent kindness, he could step back abruptly, as if he washed his hands of me and my problems, and laughed at me for expecting more.
“Ask the captain if you want to know,” he said. “There’s a small legacy for me in any case, and a job to be finished, no matter what the outcome is. After that I’ll look for work elsewhere. I’ll not seek employment with the company if Brock McLean is in charge. I like him no better than he likes me. I never intended to stay here indefinitely in any case. When I’ve served the captain I’ll go.”
At least his vehemence against Brock was somewhat reassuring. “Since we share the same feeling about Mr. McLean and his mother, perhaps I can count you my friend as well as Lien’s for the little while I must stay in this house?”
The hint of mockery that disturbed me in him had vanished. He regarded me almost warmly. “I will be your friend for however long you stay, Miranda Heath,” he assured me.
I rose and held out my hand. “I want to leave tomorrow, if that is possible. I shall be grateful for your help.”
He took my hand in one of his and covered it with the other. There was an unexpected sweetness in his smile, as if he liked me already and even wanted me to like him. I felt comforted, though perhaps with little reason, since Ian Pryott could have so little influence on my fortunes in this house.
I told him I would count on him to aid in my escape on the morrow. But now I would return to the captain’s rooms to see how he was progressing, no matter whether Mrs. McLean wanted me there or not. Ian went with me as far as the door and as I climbed the stairs he stood looking up at me gravely until I was out of sight.
I found my way to the landing in the old house and rapped upon the captain’s door. In a moment Mrs. McLean came to open it. When she saw me she shook her head and put a finger to her lips.
“There’s nothing you can do. He’s had a dreadful shock. It will be a miracle if he recovers. Please go to your room and don’t return unless you are sent for.”
I wondered if she was sending me away against the captain’s wishes, but I dared not oppose this woman who so openly disliked me. Without answering, I turned away and retraced my steps to my room. There the air seemed chill and damp and the fire remained unlighted. I did not want to set match to it now and decided to go to bed at once. My day had been long and wearing, not only because of my trip, but because of the extremes of emotion that had beset me. I bolted the door to the hallway once more, though I was not quite sure why I wanted it locked. When I looked for the key to Laurel’s room on the dresser, I found it missing. There was no sound from beyond her door and I tried for the knob. The door was locked—probably from the other side. I did not mind. It was not that strange, unhappy little girl whom I feared in this household.
I undressed quickly and pulled my warm flannel nightgown over my head. The livid scar that had marred my left shoulder since babyhood seemed to ache and burn as it sometimes did when I was worried, and I rubbed it with absent fingers. Our family doctor had told me that such aching was purely of my imagination and that the injury I had received as so young a child could not trouble me now. Nevertheless, the nervous reaction remained.
Before I got into bed I stood for a moment at the window, looking down into the same garden area that was overlooked by the captain’s windows. Though blocks of light from the older house patterned the garden in geometric squares, no bearded face stared up at me. The dog was silent now and nothing stirred among the shadows.
From this rear window I could not see the point of land that extended into the ocean, nor was the old lighthouse in view. But across the harbor the newer light flashed, alternating a period of darkness with a period of light. I knew I would not sleep with that flickering against my window and I drew the curtains tightly. Then I ran across the bare floor to where a bright oval of rag rug before the bed lent warmth and softness to my feet. A moment later I was shivering between cold sheets, pulling the quilts up snug around me.
I did not sleep. Where the night had seemed quiet before, now the sounds of a strange place seemed to murmur all about me. The sea wind howled more fiercely, it seemed to me, than the city winds to which I was accustomed. This point of land thrust itself unsheltered into the open, to be jostled by ocean gales and dashed with spray. I could hear the sea breaking with a roar upon the jagged rocks of the ocean side, then sucking back in the undertow, only to crash again, endlessly. My romantic dreams of ships and the sea had somehow never provided me with a sound so monotonously ominous.
Even the little room with its locked doors no longer seemed a harboring place. Lying there in bed, I had the curious feeling that some whispering of secrets went on in its shadow—as if the very walls talked to one another in sibilant sounds that mingled with the distant hissing of the sea.
I lay sleepless for a long while and the old loneliness which had haunted me at times deepened a hundredfold before my weary body brought me surcease and I dropped into uneasy slumber.
Perhaps I slept for two hours, or three. Once when I jerked awake, I heard a grandfather’s clock downstairs striking midnight. I listened, counting until all was silent and I fell again into unhappy dreaming. Now my dreams took on a tinge of evil. I dreamed of some danger that came upon me with a pulsing of light, that beat against my eyelids and threatened my very life. I started up with a cry, to find the light was real.
Someone stood beside my bed holding a candle that smoked and flickered in a draft of air, blinding me. In fright I struggled away to the far side of the bed. The woman holding the candle
was the captain’s wife, Lien.
“Do not fear,” she said. “I am sorry to wake you. But you must come now. Come at once.”
I flung a fearful glance at the hall door and saw that it was still bolted. She noted my look. “It is locked. I have entered through the child’s room. The captain has not recovered from the shock he has suffered. Perhaps he is dying. You will come to him at once.”
Still dazed, I stepped into the stinging cold and thrust my feet into slippers, pulled my warm wrapper about me, let the long braid of my hair hang down my back. Lien went to the hall door and slid back the bolt. But before we left the room she spoke to me softly.
“It is perhaps the end for him. You may as well promise what he asks. Give him peace. It does not matter now. It will not change your life.”
The cold draughtiness of the hallway shocked me awake and I hurried after Lien as she returned to the captain’s rooms.
There the fire still burned in the grate, though less energetically than before. The old man sat beside the hearth, enveloped in bright quilts. Brock McLean stood behind his chair, watchful and dark-browed as always, as if he habitually scowled. His mother sat somewhat apart across the room, though as watchful as her son. Neither looked at me or greeted me as I entered.
At least the room’s warmth was a relief after the shuddering cold of a New England autumn night. The captain saw me at once and a thin hand darted from his quilts to beckon me close.
“Expected to find me in bed, didn’t you, girl? But I’d rather die on my own quarter-deck instead of in bed like any landlubber. Come here, girl.”
His voice was fainter than before and it cracked more than once, as though he were fading fast. I could feel only pity for him—pity for all who were strong and bold, to whom age and weakness eventually comes. I dropped to the hassock where I had sat at his knee earlier and took his frail hand into my own.
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