The road was better past the ferry landing, raised above the low-lying sand and mud, the lengthwise-laid poles decently covered with sand and dirt. Samuel rode silent, hugging the willow basket, a little ahead of her, as if ashamed that one of his compatriots might see him with her and tease him, holding the basket awkwardly, as if it was his sister’s purse he was holding. Which was fine with Bess, still simmering over his latest crude-ness. It gave her silence in which to think, too.
She had haunted the market, the produce sheds and the street vendors, but no one could remember a customer who’d brought his or her own ribbon to tie up a bunch of oleander blossoms. She had wandered from shop to shop, seeking fabrics and showing her sample of ribbon as the exact color she wished. She was sure most of them thought her daft as bats by then. Or worse. One old chick-a-biddy milliner had flat told her “now yer dad’s well-off, ye’ve turned off miss-ish as t’rest o’ them ol’ gals,” and speculated where her level-headed sense had gone.
In a week of giddy gushing over bolts of cloth, of comparing a spool of ribbon to “that exact color” she craved, of dashing off to a next, and then a next dressmaker or milliner in her fruitless search, she was beginning to wonder if that blue satin ribbon had sprung into existence of its own. It certainly had not come from a Wilmington or New Hanover County store! Bess hoped that Constable Swann was true to his word, and had had better luck down to Masonborough.
How to handle this, now, she mused as the mule plodded onto the plank bridge over Alligator Creek, a stagnant slough through wire-grass marshes, surrounded by the stark stumps of dead and hollow cypress. It was rare to see a ‘gator around Eagle’s Island anymore, but it wasn’t out of the question. She peered over the low side of the bridge, hoping to see at least a swish in the water, if not a scaly back, a tail in motion, or a pair of eyes barely awash.
Bess was still pondering whether her giddy, girlish pose and her silliness would serve with Biddy MacDougall. If the girl was implicated, would she not recognize the ribbon, and suspect why she had come? she wondered. But what other sham could she play? She still wondered as they crossed Richmond Creek, the last stretch of dry land, and got to the Brunswick ferry landing.
So that’s what a murderer looks like, Bess thought, scowling as she got her first glimpse of the man she took for Eachan MacDougall.
“Passage for two,” Samuel said to the ferry keeper.
“Man an’ horse, fi’ pence,” the dark-featured man in the Scotch bonnet grunted, peering up at them with a frown not entirely caused by the sun’s brightness. He was dressed in a coarse, pale-tan linen shirt with voluminous sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of well-made tartan plaid trousers, cinched with a broad leather belt. In the belt, he had stuffed a pair of clean white stockings, bagged as heavy as a duke’s coin purse. Evidently, he stowed his shoes in the stockings, for his horny feet and ankles were bare.
“No discount for mules, or for a girl?” Samuel made tojape.
“Nae, thayr’s not,” Could-Be-MacDougall answered with a weary sigh, as if he’d heard that one so long before that he’d kicked slats out of his cradle the last time he’d found it amusing. “Weel ye be dismountin’, then? Or air ye waitin’ for Noah’s Ark t’come by for ye?”
Samuel sprang down from his mule and handed his reins to Could-Be-MacDougall, who sniffed as if Samuel had asked him to lick his boots clean. Samuel came to hand Bess down.
“’tis still fi’ pence. Ten pence, in all,” the man grumbled.
“Here you are, sir,” Bess answered, digging into her clutch.
“Th’ lassie pays th’ rogue’s way, is eet?” Could-Be-MacDougall smirked, all but biting the coins to assay them. “Yair feller canna be worth much, girl. Nae bargain, cheap as th’ fee be, haw haw!”
“You’re absolutely right, sir!” Bess chirped back disarmingly, smiling half from nervousness. “He’s my brother, d’ye see. I’ll sell him to you for free passage.”
“Haw!” the burly man hooted briefly. “Yair brother, is he? I’d rather hae th’ puir auld mule. Lead on, lead on, lad, an’ keep yair beasties still whilst we’re crossin’.”
The Brunswick Ferry was a double-piragua, two long cypress logs split lengthwise, then hollowed out with axes, adzes and hot stones. Once laid wide and gaping, the ends had been boarded up blunt and the logs set about five feet apart, nailed or pegged athwart with timbers, then planked and railed to make a flatboat about ten feet by thirty.
“All on?” Could-Be-MacDougall bellowed at the idlers who lazed on the landing bollards or benches. “It’ll nae get any cheaper. All on, air we? Right, then … shove off, lads.”
All four ferrymen dipped their long poles into the mud of the bank and heaved, and the ferry began to move, shuffling a little on the slow current of the Brunswick.
“Left side, now! Heave, ye heathens!”
Working the down-river side, in the blunt bows or stern of the larboard log, the ferrymen sweated and strained, dipping and poling, as the large Scotsman tended a wide sweep-oar at the stern, aiming above the landing on the opposite bank.
Bess left Samuel to tend the mules and crossed to the right-hand, up-river, side of the ferry. Try as she might to seem incurious, Bess could not help sneaking fearful looks at the potential murderer. And after one furtive glance too many, and a too-quick look away, the man finally snarled at her.
“D’ye think I look like Auld Scratch, himself, lass?” he barked.
“Oh, why no, sir!” Bess croaked, desperately thinking.
“What, then?” he demanded.
“I was wondering how … anyone could make every line of your plaid trousers meet so cleverly, sir!” Bess lied, gushing prettily to disarm him. Babbling will help, she quickly told herself. “Is it a clan pattern, or just a bought plaid? Mean t’say … you sound like a Scot. You are, aren’t you?” She threw in a bright smile, and batted her lashes rapidly enough to create a two-knot breeze.
“Och, ’tis MacDougall plaid,” the man replied, grinning a little as well. “That’s ma clan, that’s ma name. Eachan MacDougall, miss.”
“Good morrow to you, Mr MacDougall, sir!” Bess said, even dropping him a slight curtsy. “Allow me to name …”
“You’re that sawmill feller’s lass. Miss Livesey, air ye no?”
“I am, sir, Bess Livesey. That’s my brother Sam’l, yonder.”
“Aye, th’ idle one, I’m told,” MacDougall said with a slow nod and a disconcerting crinkle of sly humor round his eyes.
“The very one, sir!” Bess snickered in spite of her dread, glad that her bold, ditzy front had won the man over.
“Trews,” MacDougall said,
sir?
“Ma ‘trews.’ What we call trousers back in Scotland.”
“For when it’s too cold for kilts, Mr MacDougall?” Bess asked. “Pardon my ignorance, but I thought all Scotsmen wore kilts, even here in summer, and all.”
“’tis ne’er too cold t’wear a kilt, miss,” MacDougall boasted, “nae for a real Scot. Trews be mair practical for workin’ th’ ferry, is why.”
“Cunningly well-made, though, Mr MacDougall,” Bess repeated. “Every line, every color come together, as clever as …”
“That’s ma lass’s doin’,” MacDougall said with evident pride. “She’s a knacky’un when eet come t’sewin’. Here now, Miss Livesey … ye’d not be crossin’ th’ rivers t’do yair laundry, that bundle o’ sarks an’ such ye got thayr. Ye’d be lookin’ for a seamstress, yairself?”
“Well, I’d heard there was a marvelous dressmaker, the far side of the Brunswick, Mr MacDougall, aye, so …” Bess replied, trying to keep her teeth from chattering with sudden dread of Mr MacDougall’s seemingly suspicious and leery glower.
“That’d be ma lass Biddy ye come seekin’, then,” he told her. “Why’d ye not say so?”
“Biddy?” Bess stammered. “Oh, Biddy! The lady who told me of her called her Bridey!” she extemporized, feigning brainlessness.
“Musta b
een ain o’ th’ ‘Quality,’” MacDougall sneered, spitting over the side. “She does for th’ rich’uns, noo an’ ageen … them that has mair money than brains. Biddy does braw off thayr trade.”
“Mr MacDougall?” Bess piped, wide-eyed and innocent-seeming.
“What?”
“What’s a ‘braw’?” she tittered. “What’s a ‘sark’?”
“Braw is ‘fine,’ Miss Livesey,” MacDougall told her, after he’d thrown back his head for a good laugh. “So, ye look for Biddy, do ye? Turn off th’ Brunswick Road, gae past th’ ordinary at th’ ferry landin’ on th’ Belville Trace, then follow th’ smell o’ pigs, an’ that’ll be my land. ’tis thayr ye’ll find Biddy, an’ she can tell ye herself all about sarks an’ such. Mind, now … about yair brother. I don’t hold with a man, any man, sniffin’ round ma girl, ‘less I’m thayr.”
“He’s very well-behaved, sir.” Bess grinned. “Mostly.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m feart of,” MacDougall said with a scowl on his face. “I’ll be askin’ later, count on eet. Biddy says he shewed a. jot o’ disrespeck, I’ll call on yair brother with ma horsewhip, nae matter who his daddy be. He’s t’stay in th’ yard, an’ he’s not t’gae further than ma porch, or I’ll cut ma clan tartan on his back, were his father King George o’ Hanover!” MacDougall vowed.
“Sam’l only came along to escort me, as a brother should, sir,” Bess replied, getting a sudden inspiration. “As you guard your daughter’s reputation. Is it very far to your lane from the ferry tavern?”
“‘Bout half a mile or so,” MacDougall allowed with a grunt.
“Hmmm … what if Sam’l saw me to your lane, Mr MacDougall, then came back to the tavern to wait for me? Where you could keep one eye out for him, would that suit?” she asked with a sly, impish grin.
“Hah! Aye, that’d do. I’d settle for that.”
“I trust the ordinary sets a decent dinner?” Bess chuckled.
“Och, they do not!” MacDougall snickered with her, even winking as he got her intent, ““lis swill I’d nae feed t’ma pigs!”
“That will have to do him,” Bess told him. “And here I brought all this fried chicken and biscuits! Oh, what a pity.”
“Good God, Bess!” Samuel urgently whispered once they were back ashore and remounted. “Do ya know who that scoundrel is you were all jolly with back yonder?”
“MacDougall, I think he said he was,” Bess sweetly answered.
“Lord, Bess! That’s the Eachan MacDougall, the meanest man in the whole Cape Fear!” Samuel ranted, reeling off the high points of a fearful reputation for brawling, fighting, maybe a once-before murder—and a fiercely protective father, too. “I heard he’ll cut a man’s heart out if he looks in his girl’s general direction, Bess,” Samuel concluded.
“He seemed met enough.” Bess only nodded, holding back her surprise. “Give me the basket. I can carry that, too, if it shames you.”
Samuel handed it over without a thought. Bess was glad that he hadn’t been told Constable Swann’s suspicions yet, so he didn’t know what was coming. Or had the rumor to pass among his friends.
“Sam’l, hejust told me where to find my dressmaker. That was all,” Bess said, lips curling in a smile in spite of herself. “I can ride the rest of the way alone, if you’ll stay here at the tavern and watch me. ’tis only half a mile on.
“Stay at the tavern?” He whirled. “Watch you got”
“Just up the road, he said. On the right.”
“But… wasn’t I supposed to ride with you?” he blustered, not the sort who dealt well with surprises. “That’s why you got me to come with you, wasn’t it? That’s why you got me away from work, wasn’t it?”
“Mr MacDougall didn’t think your going a good idea.”
“What? Wait, what about dinner? And meetin’ the dressmaker?”
“Her name’s not Bridey or Bridget,” Bess confessed, gaping wide-eyed as if she’djust learned it. “It’s Biddy. Biddy MacDougall!”
“Oh, Lord,” Samuel grunted, paling, nigh-swaying in his saddle.
“I’m so sorry, Sam’l!” Bess commiserated. “I didn’t know! I can call on her, but he objected to you, being a young man and all. God, Sam’l, I really am sorry!” Bess swore, finding her tone so sympathetic and convincing that she half-believed it, herself!
“What’s this? Didn’t know! O’ course ye knew. Well, the devil with Eachan MacDougall!”
“He said for you to sit on the tavern porch, Sam,” Bess went on. “Where he can keep an eye on you, I expect. He was really most insistent. Here …” Bess offered, digging in the basket. “Here’s a breast, a thigh and a drumstick, three biscuits …”
“Gah, you …!” Samuel seethed as Bess handed him his share of dinner wrapped in a napkin. He turned in his saddle to look back over his shoulder, to see MacDougall standing on the prow of the ferry, arms akimbo and hands on his hips, glaring at him. “Think you’re funny, do ye, Bess? Think ye’ve fooled me again? See if I ever do ye another favor, dang … God, ah … shitjire!” he trailed off weakly.
He thought of leaving Bess on the Brunswick side, going back to the sawmill, ‘til he realised that Bess had the coin for that passage, unless he abandoned the mule and rode cheaper. Counting on his sister to pay, he further discovered that he didn’t have enough money to buy a very needful pint ofbeer, or two!
“Back as quick as I can,” Bess said, kneeing her mule to motion. And there she went, up the Belville Trace!
Chapter 17
HELLO the house!” Bess hesitantly called out. The Belville Trace had been gloomy enough of a hemmed-in track, but the MacDougall lane and yard were even more off-putting. Tall pines surrounded it, scrub growth beneath them pressing in as if the forest wanted to take back the interloper’s clearings. There was a cornfield beyond, with a truck garden to the right, where the sun shone. The rest stood deep in shadows, bounded by zig-zag rail fences, behind which she could hear a herd of pigs snuffling and grunting. There were some sheds, a tumbledown barn, and a stock pen and pasture where a lone mule dozed, cock-footed. What passed for lawn was all but buried in long, brown pine needles and cones. The house in the middle of it all…
Actually, the house was the one bright spot, Bess thought. It was made from square cypress logs, the sandy mud chinking daubed with white paint. Its doors, shutters and window frames were painted a gay green, and under each window was a painted planter box full of blooms. On the deep, cool porch were half-kegs much like her own, overflowing with bright wild-flowers, or herbs. The roof was well-shingled, and a creek-stone, mud and cypress chimney drew well, lazily fuming smoke.
And, there was a pair of dogs: huge, bushy half-wolves, barking and snarling, of a sudden, teeth bared and slinking in dashes for her! “Hello?” Bess called louder, feeling her mule shiver. “Help?”
“Hello, yairself?” a shy voice called back from within. A drape was pulled back, and a face appeared in a window that was only fitted with one glass pane. The rest of the glazing was paper-thin deerhides. The door opened and a girl stepped onto the porch, clapping her hands and whistling. “Wallace! Dundee! Hesh, yairselves, now! Come here, an’ sit. Sit! Aye, now … may I be helpin’ ye, mistress?”
Constable Swann was right; Biddy MacDougall was, indeed, as fair and pretty as an angel. Her hair was long and the slightest bit curly, parted down the center of her head and drawn back loosely into a single, lustrous tress. Her eyes were incredibly large, blue as cornflowers or periwinkles, and her complexion was as creamy and clear as…!
“I’m Bess Livesey,” she managed to say at last, shaking herself before the girl thought her a mute. “Your father said I could come up to see you. About getting a gown made, and such?”
“Och, aye!” Biddy MacDougall perked up, pleased and relieved at once. “I’m Biddy. Get ye doon, Mistress Livesey, an’ come on inna th’ house. Ne’er fear th’ dogs, thayr mair bark than bite, once they know ye. Here, let me help ye.”
She came off
the porch to lead the mule to a large stump, which Bess could use for a dis-mounting block. “I’m that sorry t’sound like ye fashed me, Mistress, but we don’t get much comp’ny callin’, d’ye see. Here, laddies! Let ’em sniff yair hands, an’ they’ll not be a bother. Nice lady, see Dundee … Wallace? Hae yairself a seat on th’ porch, Mistress Livesey, an’ I’ll water yair mule for ye.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Miss MacDougall,” Bess pooh-poohed. “You mustn’t gotoso much …”
“It’s nae trouble, Mistress Livesey,” Biddy smiled most sunnily as she petted the old mule’s nose, cheeks and neck. “Puir auld fellah would care for a sip or twa, I’d expect, hey auld lad? An’ a nose-bag of oats’d nae be spurned, either,” she crooned to the mule. “Take yair ease, Mistress, an’ I’ll be back in twa shakes o’ th’ wee lamb’s tail, an’ th’ first a’ready be shook!” she gaily chirped, then led the mule towards the barn, leaving Bess with her bundle and basket. She mounted the low porch and sat down in a caned ladderback chair, glad that the two dogs were well-behaved enough to merely sit and whine at the scent of fried chicken, not mob her and run off with it.
Biddy MacDougall … Bess looked up to watch her stroll towards the barn beside the mule, and felt a touch of envy. The girl was just about her age and height, but womanly, coltishly full at breasts and hips, yet willow-slim overall. Biddy MacDougall wasn’t the bawdy drab that the constable’s tale had made her envision, the usual poor country girl in muddy bare feet and a soiled cast-off shift.
Biddy perhaps only wore one petticoat, and no stays or corsets, but her simple homemaker’s sack gown was clean, bright and well-made, and had smelled of fresh soap, starch and sunlight; she was neatly and almost primly garbed. Cotton stockings winked white beneath the hem of her gown as she strode away, and good, solid shoes with shining iron buckles were on her feet.
No one taught her to glide, either! Bess thought with the start of an easy smile as she took note of the purposeful, bouncy stride of a healthy, infectiously cheerful young girl. She could see why her uncle Harry might’ve been smitten, if that particular rumor would prove to be true. Andwhat man wouldn’t bet she asked herself. Suddenly she wished that she hadn’t come … or, that at the end of her amateurish digging into the matter, she’d find both Biddy and Harry Tresmayne blameless.
What Lies Buried: A Novel of Old Cape Fear Page 15
