Sea Jade

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She continued to stare at me with her wild, bright gaze. “I don’t like you to wear my mother’s clothes. My father should make you take off that dress.”

  “I’m not going to wear it after today,” I said. “There was nothing else for me to put on, since your grandmother wanted me in black.” To my own ears I was offering apologetic excuses to the child, and she promptly took advantage of such weakness.

  “I won’t stay in the same room with you!” she announced, and went flouncing out, brushing roughly past me, as though she would have liked to hurt me in some physical way if she could. I sat down in the chair she had left, feeling once more defeated and helpless to act.

  “If you let her get the upper hand, the child can make you suffer in this house,” Ian Pryott pointed out.

  “What am I to do?” I said in despair. “No one here behaves in a reasonable, normal way.”

  “Then you must learn how to deal with those who are neither reasonable nor normal, mustn’t you?”

  Again I sensed that Ian Pryott weighed and judged me. Once more I wondered how to find my way past the guard he had set up against me. I could not, I felt sure, make any explanation concerning my own actions until Ian knew me better. How could he have faith in what I might tell him as a stranger?

  He had not returned to the writing I had interrupted, but sat watching me quietly. At least his manner was less chill this morning and he had not turned me out of the room so that he could get back to work. I seized upon a subject that must surely be of concern to him.

  “With the captain gone, what will you do now?”

  “I’ll finish my work, I suppose. After that, who can tell? Perhaps Lien will give me a few odd jobs around the place in order to use my valuable talents.”

  He appeared to be mocking himself and somehow I did not want him to do that. “From what I’ve seen, your talent for carving is real. Why shouldn’t you develop it, do something with it?”

  He shrugged. “What I do can be done by a thousand others. Men at sea have amused themselves with whittling for centuries. There’s no market for such carvings.”

  As I regarded him in troubled silence, he suddenly relaxed and smiled at me. “Don’t set me down as lacking in ambition and backbone, Miranda. I’ve ambition enough in my own way, but the course I choose will have to be my own, and there’s no great hurry. The captain promised me a small legacy and that will see me through for the time.”

  The atmosphere between us seemed to grow less tense, less antagonistic, and I found that it was possible to talk quite easily to Ian Pryott.

  “I need your help,” I said. “You are the historian—perhaps there’s something you can tell me.”

  He sat back in his chair, waiting, asking no questions.

  I began indirectly. “When did the Sea Jade make her first voyage?”

  He had no need to consider. “In the spring of 1858. She was one of the last clippers to come down the ways.”

  “I suppose you’ve talked to the captain about that voyage? I suppose there are records of it that you’ve read?”

  Now he sensed my direction and a look of sympathy came into his eyes. “The subject was a painful one to Captain Obadiah. He never liked to talk about it, and he had a secretive nature. But since what happened then could not be ignored, he had to tell me something about it.”

  “Is it true that Andrew McLean died on that voyage? Is it true that he was shot to death?”

  “There’s no question about that,” Ian admitted.

  “How did it happen that all three of the captains were aboard the ship at one time? Obadiah was master, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s true. The ship was a dream of Andrew McLean’s. He had her built even sharper than the earlier clippers and he wanted to sail her himself on that trip. But Captain Obadiah had his eye set on a new record and he was determined to make it himself. As owner, he had the final say-so as to who would sail her, though he did not keep Andrew from going along.”

  “Why was my father aboard?”

  “As a partner he probably couldn’t bear to be left behind on so historic a voyage. From what I’ve read in records and letters, there were some who were against the three partners sailing together, lest all be lost on a dangerous ship. But old Obadiah liked the idea, so sail they did.”

  I left my chair and went to stand before Ian’s desk. “Do you know exactly how Captain McLean died?”

  His eyes fell before mine, and I saw that he did not want to tell me.

  “Don’t you know?” he asked at last.

  “Not really. My father never talked about it. Last night Brock told me what he believes to be the truth. I cannot accept his account. I knew my father too well. Yet if by some wild chance there is some truth in the story, then I think Andrew McLean must have done something to deserve what happened. He must have—”

  “There was a trial,” Ian said quietly. “When the Sea Jade reached home, there was a trial.”

  I leaned upon the desk to steady myself. “Tell me, please. Tell me the truth.”

  “If you wish it,” he said. He rose, moving away from my evident intensity and went to lean against the mantel as he had done the night I had first talked to him. There he stared into the fire as if he saw the movement of pictures in the flames. Choosing his words with consideration, he began the story.

  NINE

  “Apparently Captain McLean and Captain Heath quarreled during a violent storm on the homeward voyage of the ship,” Ian began. “What the quarrel was about has never been revealed. No one seems to know and Heath would never say. The fact is that Heath was armed and McLean was not, and that Heath shot and killed his former friend that night. Obadiah had Heath put in irons and then he sailed the ship through the storm and back to home port. The trial might have gone badly for Captain Heath if Obadiah had not eventually told the court that McLean had committed an act of mutiny in a rage, so that Heath had performed his duty in shooting him down.”

  I must have made some exclamation of relief, for Ian turned from the fire, his look pitying.

  “Heath was let off for lack of evidence, but there were those who claimed that Captain Obadiah perjured himself to save his old friend. Otherwise, why had he not spoken up sooner and prevented a needless trial? Afterwards Obadiah would not let your father captain another Bascomb ship and Heath sold out his holdings in the company and retired from the sea.”

  I returned to my chair and sat down. I knew my father. He had been a gentle, loving, considerate man. An intelligent man, and one far broader in his views than Captain Obadiah seemed to have been. He had opened the world to me, while Captain Obadiah had apparently believed that the world revolved only about Scots Harbor and Bascomb & Company. A notion which the McLeans appeared to share. Yet for all his broader outlook, there had been times when my father had withdrawn from those he held dear, turning to some narrow, inner place where he brooded in a depth of silence. The name Sea Jade was not to be spoken lightly in his presence, lest it lead to such brooding. Always there had been for me a sense of ominous mystery about the ship’s first voyage. There had been as well my aunt’s quick tears and refusal to tell me what was the matter. The story Ian had just related seemed to corroborate what Brock believed. As Brock had pointed out so callously, I knew nothing of my father beyond the doors of his own home. But in spite of such evidence, there was a fiery loyalty in me that would not accept as fact even the strongest of arguments against my father. There were times when the heart was wiser than all reason and my heart insisted that there was more to this story than was fully known; that if the truth were found my father would be exonerated.

  So deep was the reverie into which I had fallen that Ian’s voice, continuing, startled me.

  “At least Captain McLean’s death made little outward difference to Brock and his mother. The McLeans already occupied this house and afterwards the mother and son stayed on. McLean had gone deeply into debt to back some of his bolder experiments, some of which were unsuccessful. It to
ok his holdings in the company, and more, to pay off what he owed. Thus there was little left for Brock and Mrs. McLean. Brock must have been about sixteen at the time, and already shipping aboard Bascomb clippers. Captain Obadiah saw to it that his mother was paid a handsome salary as housekeeper here, so that she could continue to live in the house, and he promised to settle large holdings in the company on the boy, when he’d proved himself as master of his own ship. Brock sailed only once as a captain and he made a good record, I gather. But that was the end of his sailing.”

  “Because of the war?”

  “Yes. He was an officer aboard the sailing frigate Congress in ’62 when the ironclad Merrimac cornered her at Hampton Roads. He was severely wounded in the shelling and his active life at sea was finished with the damage to his hip, though in time he learned to get about on his own two legs again. He went into the management and building end of Bascomb & Company eventually. If he could put old disappointments from his mind, he might live a satisfactory enough life, even now. He has served the captain well. It was expected that Obadiah would shape his will to make Brock his main heir. But for some reason the old man always put it off. There seems something strange about that postponement. As if he couldn’t quite trust Andrew McLean’s son.”

  The library was quiet. I sat with my hands folded tightly together as I listened, my thoughts flitting ahead of Ian’s words, striving to find some way out of the puzzle that had opened before me.

  “Listen to me, Miranda Heath,” Ian said and I looked up, surprised by the tone in which he spoke my maiden name. “Be careful what you do and say. Don’t stir up any more animosity in this place than you’ve already aroused. Sometimes I think Lien is right when she says the earthly spirits of the departed have been allowed to collect under this roof for too many years. Now there’s a gathering of trouble in the air. Stay apart from it if you can.”

  “How can I stay apart when I’m married to Brock McLean?” I demanded. “Tell me what you mean. With whom must I be careful?”

  He made a vague gesture of dismissal by way of answer. “Who is to say for certain? Perhaps I’m more sensitive to the climate of this place than some. I have the feeling that trouble is brewing. I’d like to see you well out of it. It’s too bad I couldn’t act in time and do what Mrs. McLean first wanted me to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He grimaced wryly. “She offered me rather a tidy sum if I would get you away from Bascomb’s Point with all due speed. She suggested that I make love to you, marry you if necessary—do anything at all to get you away before the captain could force Brock into marrying Carrie Corcoran’s daughter—Nathaniel Heath’s daughter. I’m afraid she believes in the sins of the fathers being visited upon the daughters.” There was a hint of laughter in his eyes, amusement at the expression I must have worn.

  I could only gape at him in dismay. I had begun to trust Ian Pryott, and to respect the clear, straightforward way in which he appraised Captain Obadiah and his household. Now I felt suddenly betrayed.

  “So that was it?” I said stiffly. “When I asked you to help me get away and you agreed, I thought you were being kind. I thought you were my friend. When all the time you were tricking me because of the money Mrs. McLean had promised you. No wonder you were annoyed when I married Brock.”

  He laughed aloud, unabashed. “When you’re angry, Miranda, you stop being merely pretty. You begin to look quite terrifyingly beautiful. You throw out dangerous sparks. But since we are being honest with each other, let me say that I wouldn’t have done what Mrs. McLean asked merely for the money she offered me. Though—never having had any—I have considerable respect for money. However, once I’d seen you, you were inducement enough in yourself. But there was no time. You threw yourself headlong into marrying Brock.”

  “I didn’t want to marry him!” I cried. “The captain was dying. And they were all against me. I couldn’t stand alone and—”

  “And of course this does solve your major problem rather neatly, doesn’t it?”

  He was not laughing now and I saw that he believed what Brock had believed. In consternation I began to wonder if the motives both Ian and Brock read into my actions were the true ones after all, and if I deceived myself most of all. Had I been willing to snatch at any straw to save myself from the unhappy existence that awaited me in New York?

  Ian came quickly across the room, perhaps sensing my reaction. He put a hand on my shoulder, touching me lightly. “Don’t mind my teasing. I suppose it’s a defense. Sometimes I carry it too far. I’ll confess that I was ready to condemn you at first. Too late I’ve learned to know you a little better.”

  For the first time I saw frank liking in his eyes—and something of regret. He took his hand from my shoulder and moved away.

  “In any event, don’t be too hard on yourself, Miranda. Who knows what drives any one of us? The captain gave me my chance. But it was because I was ready to take it that I got myself into a different sort of background. Sybil McLean has always looked down her long nose at me and I’ve no love for her, or for her son. But perhaps they are driven too. As you must be now—by the situation in which you find yourself.”

  Once more I felt baffled by Ian Pryott. He had a way of alternately dismaying, then winning me—a contradiction that left me with a certain uneasiness concerning his true nature. Had I met him elsewhere than in this disquieting household, I would have trusted him wholly and instinctively. But my treatment here had roused in me a wariness that set me on guard, even where I most wanted to trust.

  I believe he sensed my confusion, yet he made no effort to reassure me, and the very absence of any pressure from his direction relaxed me a little and put me more at ease.

  His warnings not to stir up any more animosity than I could help reminded me that the captain too had tried to warn me of trouble ahead. I repeated the old man’s cryptic words to Ian, telling him how the captain had, in his dying moments, warned of reefs that I must weather.

  “He said I had only half the story and that I must find the whole.” In uttering the words a connection flashed into my mind for the first time. “Do you suppose he could have meant that there was more to the story of what happened aboard the Sea Jade? At the very end Captain Obadiah murmured that he had always meant to do something. But he died before he could tell me what it was.”

  “I’m afraid he has given you too little to go on,” Ian said.

  “There was something else. Something about a whale stamp—about following a whale stamp. What could he have meant by that? What is a whale stamp?”

  Ian went to his desk, opened a drawer and took something from it. Then he crossed the room to put an object into my hands.

  “There you are! That is a whale stamp. Though what the captain meant by his reference, I have no idea.”

  He had handed me a scrimshaw piece, carved from the sperm tooth of a whale. It was made in the form of a lady’s hand set upon a wooden base. The ivory hand was intricately carved, with a fancy lace cuff at the wrist, and a delicate ring etched on one finger. The closed fist made by curved fingers formed the handle of what appeared to be a stamp. I turned it over and saw the outline of a whale cut into the wooden base.

  “What is it for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what connection there might have been in the captain’s mind,” Ian said. “Or even if this was the stamp he had reference to. There must be a number of such stamps about. When a whaling vessel had a successful day and a whale was caught, the outline you see there was stamped in the margin of the ship’s log opposite the record of the day. When a whale got away, half the stamp was masked and only the tail was marked in the margin. This was common practice aboard whalers.”

  I turned the scrimshaw carving about in my hands, examining the delicate, skillful work, studying the outline of the whale. But it told me nothing. I gave it back to Ian.

  “I don’t know what the captain meant, but I’m not going to give up searching for an answer. I can’t
believe the story that has been told about my father.”

  I could tell by Ian’s look that he believed what Brock believed and I let the matter go.

  “Growing up in Scots Harbor, how did you escape becoming a sailor?” I asked him. “Don’t you like the sea?”

  “Like it?” He sounded rueful. “I’m devoted to it! But only on paper. What voyages I have taken in famous clippers!—but all in my head.”

  I could understand what he meant, for I had done the same thing. “I’ve always wanted to make a real one,” I said. “Haven’t you?”

  He seemed amused. “I prefer dry land under my feet and a pen or a chisel in my hand. I never cared for swimming as a boy. Water is not my element and I can barely get about in it. Grant me the right to other interests, Miranda. Not every Scots Harbor man must be a sailor.”

  We smiled at each other then, and there was growing understanding between us. When he turned back to his desk I would have risen to leave him to his work, but at that moment the library door burst open and Laurel rushed in, breathless and excited.

  “You’re to come at once, Miss Miranda! They’re going to read the captain’s will. Mr. Osgood says we must understand its terms at once, and he is here. He wants you present, and I may stay too, so it seems likely that the captain has left us something.”

  I looked at Ian. “Must I go? Mrs. McLean is sure to resent my presence.”

  “If Mr. Osgood requests it, you must go,” Ian assured me. “Run along. And when it’s over tell me what has happened.”

  “Won’t you come with us? If the captain has left you a legacy—”

  “I’ll be notified in due time,” he told me quietly. “It’s hardly urgent and they’ll not want me there.”

  Laurel plucked at my sleeve. “Oh, do stop talking and come! The captain always said he would leave me something special in his will. Something that would remind me of him. Not that I’d ever forget him anyway,” she added, sobering.

  I allowed her to pull me along, noting that someone had tried to brush her hair into a semblance of order, though the black strands were already slipping out of place.