It was that image of Mother enthusiastically reading Aunt Pru’s correspondence that gave me the notion. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Of the stack of letters, tied neatly with a red satin ribbon, that Mother kept in the bottom drawer of Father’s desk? There might lie the key to my aunt Pru’s whereabouts!
I pushed the snoring Mr. Pugsley off of my legs and slipped out of bed. I grabbed my shawl from the chair, lit the small kerosene lantern on my nightstand, and tiptoed into the hallway, lamp in hand. I carefully lowered the wick so that all the lamp gave off was enough of a glow to just light my way. I walked noiselessly, with a stealth I hadn’t known I was capable of. I couldn’t risk waking Uncle Victor or Aunt Margaret, didn’t want to arouse their attention. I scarcely breathed as I silently set first one foot, and then the other, on the stairs past their chamber. The staircase suddenly seemed my ally, for not one board let out a groan, not one plank so much as a creak. I slunk among the shadows, blending into the darkness as though the house and I were one.
I swept into the library like a ghost, leaving the door ajar so as to hear any movement from the upper floor. I practically floated over toward the desk and gently set down the lamp.
The desk seemed just as Father had left it. I stood for a moment, imagining his hands on the drawer pulls, the graceful fountain pen in his hand. I swallowed hard as I took Mother’s silver letter opener and slid it into the pocket of my dressing gown. This was something that should be mine. I wouldn’t risk having it fall into my aunt’s chubby fingers, nor my uncle’s greedy grasp.
I fell to my knees and pulled the drawer—the lower right drawer—ever so gently. A familiar dark, woody aroma escaped as it opened. I inhaled deeply and reached my hopeful hands inside.
My heart was fairly racing. I felt the bundle immediately—the fine, dry envelopes; the tiny jagged edges of the postage stamps in the corners; the smooth, cool satin ribbon that held, I prayed, the secrets that I sought. I thought of poring over the correspondence right then and there, crouched behind the desk, but it was a desire I thought best to curb. It simply wasn’t worth the risk of being discovered. Instead I tucked the bundle into my pocket beside the letter opener, and pulled my shawl tightly around me.
As I stood to leave, my eye was drawn to the tall library windows. Each diamond-shaped pane seemed to sparkle in the moonlight. I could not ever remember being in the room at that hour, at a time of night when everything familiar seemed rather odd and cold in the dim light. I had intended to leave immediately, to return to my room as swiftly as I’d come, but I hesitated. Perhaps it was the light of the moon spilling into the room, or perhaps it was something else. The night felt peculiar, but I could not determine whether it felt menacing or magical, or whether perhaps the strangeness was just me, drowning in the feeling of being so completely alone.
I went to the window and stood, my mind as blank and as gray as a slate rubbed clean. The moon was full—a gigantic cool white pearl suspended over the ocean. I had never seen a moon quite like it before.
I stood, nearly hypnotized, staring out at the pale white moonbeams dancing across the black water, creating a shimmering path of light from horizon to shore.
Thinking I’d indulged myself long enough, I started to turn from the window. But then I saw something.
It was only the smallest of movements out there that caught my eye and held me at the window. There was someone outside—someone on the path of the moonbeams. Not quite trusting my own eyes, I leaned forward, squinting. I rushed back to Father’s desk and picked up the spyglass. At the window I extended the tubular lens and peered through it. The distant shore jumped into close view, requiring a second to reacclimate myself to this new perspective.
It was a woman. She swam in long, graceful strokes, barely rippling the water around her. I watched as she pulled herself from the sea and shook herself off. She tossed back her head, her long silver hair swinging away from her face in a brilliant, sleek sheet that sent a shower of water droplets in an arc behind her.
A wave of foolish disappointment washed over me. I had thought—or desperately hoped—that somehow the woman in the water was Mother. But of course, it wasn’t. How could it be?
Despite my disappointment, there was a feeling of strength about her that pulled at me, as if a brush with her might transfer a measure of her fortitude my way.
I watched her wrap a large pale blanket around her narrow frame. Then she turned and stared up in my direction, toward the house. It was not a casual gaze—not at all—rather, it was focused and intense. I drew back from the window and into the shadows, still watching, hopefully undetected.
The old woman knelt at the water’s edge and scooped up a handful of the sea. I stared, fascinated, as she lifted her chin up toward the house, shut her eyes, and placed her cupped palm just beneath her lips. She inhaled deeply and blew at the water in her hand, much the way Mother would blow a cascade of feather-light bath bubbles as we soaked in the tub. Or perhaps it was a kiss, blown my way.
A noise in the hallway broke my reverie. I spun from the window and listened so intently that my entire face hurt. It was a soft and rhythmic clicking sound approaching along the stairway.
It was Mr. Pugsley, of course. I rushed to the door and scooped his wriggling body up in my arms. I prayed he would remain quiet, and fought the urge to cover his small black muzzle with my hand. I stood perfectly still, struggling to detect any sound whatever, straining until the silence itself seemed thunderous in my ears.
Satisfied that Mr. Pugsley and I were the only ones awake, I shifted my attention back to the window. I held Mr. Pugsley firmly, his stocky little body neatly tucked under my left arm. I reached again for the spyglass, this time anchoring it in place with only my right hand. I stared through the lens and gasped.
A brilliant mist seemed to float and gently cascade off the roof of our house, curling in wispy clouds around the bay of windows where I stood. I took the lens from my eye for a second and pushed the hinged glass panel all the way open, allowing the vapors to filter in. The room felt suddenly alive with energy, a tingle that was almost physical. Even Mr. Pugsley was enchanted, I was convinced—the way he lay within my grasp, calm as I’d ever seen him, and silent, with barely a trace of his usual wheezing and panting. I, too, felt unnaturally calm in such a peculiar circumstance. Once again I gazed through the lens, wondering if the old woman had noticed this strange phenomenon.
Through the lens I saw her watch the house, her lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised. But then, suddenly, she turned, as though startled. She backed up, her posture stiff, her face alert. I aimed my spyglass off in the direction in which she was peering.
I must say, I do not know how I was able to even hold the scope steady, so shocked was I at the sight before me. I must have stiffened, for Mr. Pugsley began to bristle and squirm, a growl rumbling in his small, broad chest.
The old woman continued to back up, her eyes never leaving the Brute, who appeared out of the pine grove before her. Yes, it was the Brute—the wild bear of a man who had been the cause of Mother and Father’s accident. He lunged at the old woman, and my heart nearly stopped beating. I watched in a kind of suspended dread as the woman continued backing up, step by step, into the sea, the water rising around her ankles, then her knees. The Brute yelled something at her, his voice lost to me in the wind. He waved his arms wildly and approached the water’s edge. But the old woman just continued her retreat, holding him on the shore with only her gaze, calmly and deliberately backing out farther and farther along the moonbeam path into the sea. She continued until all that was visible was a circular ripple on the surface where the water enveloped the top of her head, her silver hair streaming out for a moment and then disappearing from view. I stared, transfixed. Mr. Pugsley began to bark, that high-pitched yipping that had punctuated the boating nightmare that took my father and mother from me.
To my horror, the Brute cocked his head as if listening, and slowly turned, peering straight up at the hou
se. I clamped my hand over the dog’s muzzle and, in my struggle to silence him, somehow let the spyglass slip from my grasp. As it hit the floor, there was a harsh clank of metal followed by a sickening shattering of glass. I found that I could not move, could scarcely breathe for the beating of my heart.
And then a shuffling sound overhead. A shuffling sound and a voice—clearly my uncle’s.
That, and then the sound of his approaching footsteps on the stairs.
5
Still hugging Mr. Pugsley, I stepped into the nook between the edge of the tall bookcase and the windowsill, inching back as much as I could so as to move out of the moonlit area around Father’s desk.
With each approaching step I realized that, of course, we would be discovered. As if the broken spyglass wasn’t enough to prove my guilt, there sat the lamp glowing on the desktop, illuminating the gaping lower drawer—not to mention the wide-open window, curtains billowing like sails on a ship. “Who’s there?” he called from down the corridor. “Who’s there, I say?”
Mr. Pugsley squirmed and growled, and I held him close, praying he’d settle down. I thought of just answering, of making some excuse about not being able to sleep, but my tongue felt thick and my voice couldn’t seem to connect with the breath to carry it. I stood dumb, silent, waiting to be found.
Uncle Victor approached the door. The soft glow of the lamp began to expand, and from it emanated a small swirl of the same glittering vapor I’d seen float through the window. Mr. Pugsley and I stared, hypnotized, our eyes following the vapor that was traveling like a graceful swarm of microscopic fireflies. The sparkling mist surrounded the lamp, snuffing out the flame, and then drifted over the desktop toward the drawer.
An instant before Uncle Victor stepped into the room, Mr. Pugsley and I watched, openmouthed and bug-eyed, as the mist silently ushered the desk drawer shut, and then drifted on along the moonbeam toward the window. The diamond-shaped panes were suddenly shrouded in the shimmering mist, a magical vaporous curtain that seemed to draw the window shut. At the same time, another sparkling cloud spread beneath the broken spyglass, buoying it up from the floor. This was accompanied by the barely audible tinkling sounds of shards of glass hovering alongside, reconverging in the open end of the spyglass.
The mist all but disappeared as Uncle Victor stepped into the room, and for an instant I wondered whether or not I’d actually seen it. But of course I’d seen it—how else could one explain the snuffed-out lamp, the snug drawer and windows, the spyglass all shipshape again in one piece? I retreated as far back into the shadows as I could, my hope of remaining undetected suddenly rekindled.
Uncle Victor moved toward the center of the room, slowly, warily, his head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. I held my breath as he rounded the far side of the desk. If he were to glance over his shoulder into the path of the moonlight, he would surely glimpse Mr. Pugsley and me pressed up against the side of the bookcase.
This time I didn’t actually see the vapor—but I felt it, surrounding the edge of the shelving from ceiling to floor. It was a light tingling sensation, like thousands of very fine pins and needles that pulsed between me and the shelf. As Uncle Victor peered in our direction, the most uncanny thing of all occurred. The edge of the bookcase began to breathe—at least that’s the way it seemed to me. It was as though the very wood itself inhaled, puffing up and out, swelling and expanding just enough to block Uncle Victor’s view of me, and mine of him.
He stood for a minute, silently. I could nearly feel his eyes hungrily taking in every detail of the room, searching, scanning, skimming for evidence of anything out of place. The moment hung there between us and I could practically feel the shelf around me holding its breath, waiting … waiting.
After what seemed like an eternity, my uncle Victor swore softly under his breath and retreated, his bedroom slippers making a hollow flapping noise along the floor.
I heard the diminishing sound of his footfalls on the stairs, the murmur of Aunt Margaret’s voice, and the creak of the bed as he laid his narrow frame back down.
We stayed still, Mr. Pugsley and I, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Mr. Pugsley squirmed out of my arms, and I leaned over to let him down. I stepped out from the shadows and looked about.
Nothing was amiss, not a thing out of place. Mr. Pugsley walked this way and that, nose to the ground, sniffing the space around the desk, beneath the window. I tiptoed over to the desk and picked up Father’s spyglass with trembling hands. It was completely intact, just as it had always been. I turned toward the window and peered outside. An unearthly stillness hung over the place—even the water seemed flat and unusually calm. There was no sign of the old woman, no sign of the Brute. A dark cloud passed in front of the moon, a smoky silhouette veiling the luminous pearl. The moonbeam path slowly disappeared, handing the library back over to the night. In the darkness the whole episode suddenly seemed unreal to me, impossible.
Yet the pack of letters sat in my pocket against my hip, and I’d not been discovered.
I bent and picked Mr. Pugsley up, and took my lamp in my hand. As I moved toward the door, the room itself seemed to release a sound like a sigh—a very deep sigh, or a hushed whisper.
I turned back and paused for a moment.
“Thank you,” I answered, but to whom or to what, I had no idea.
6
Back in my room, I laid my bedclothes along the bottom of the door to block even the smallest wink of lamplight from escaping into the hallway. The house was still, but I could not risk being discovered, should Uncle Victor be struggling with sleeplessness after the disturbance in the library.
I sat on the floor, my back against the door, ears attuned to any hint of movement in the house. My lamp flickered beside me as I, with trembling fingers, untied the bundle. The papers fell into my lap like thin, dry leaves. I slipped the first letter out of its envelope and unfolded the ivory sheets of parchment, revealing Aunt Pru’s ornate, practiced script.
June 13, 1903
My Dearest Johanna,
I do pray this letter finds you well and happy! And that your dear seaman continues to thrive on shore! I often, during the evening and around our campfire, imagine the three of you snug in that marvelous mansion of yours facing the wild Atlantic, enjoying the quiet life of art and leisure you so desired!
I continually marvel at how the two of us could be so different and still love each other so! And, sadly, it vexes me that my dear brother continues to deny the validity of my quest. I can say, with some certainty, that I have uncovered important clues to our family’s past—on the green isle of Ireland and in Australia. In fact, I now have evidence that a deed exists, in grandfather’s name, for land near a remote town called Stuart, near Alice Springs. I intend to make my way there and continue to untangle the mystery of the family curse that my brother so staunchly refuses to acknowledge. God knows, I pray he is right!
I write you from the middle of the continent, continuing with Dr. Washburn’s expedition. We have become quite friendly with the aboriginal people of the area, and these primitive folk guide us as to where we can find our next collection of cave paintings. It is quite a thrill to carry crude torches into these dark caverns and to view the ancient and often savage paintings that tell the story of these people. I use my artistic gift to sketch these depictions into my journal. We engage in many stimulating conversations about the possible meaning of this primitive art, while at the same time, I continue to piece together important information about the missing years our grandfather spent here on the continent down under.
So, dear sister-in-law, if you do not receive word from me in the coming months, do not fret—we are far from civilized culture and anyplace where a letter might be posted! I pray this finds its way to you, sent via the kindness of a rancher trekking through the region.
Love to my dear niece and to your handsome sailor!
—Pru
PS—As I always beg—despite Edward’s pooh-poohing—please s
ee that my brother takes care and caution in everything he does—particularly on the water. His safety is my greatest concern.
I grasped the letter so tightly that the edges curled in my sweaty hands.
Family curse? Their grandfather’s—my great-grandfather’s—missing years in Australia? And the postscript …
My eyes stung with tears of sadness and anger. Yes, Aunt Pru, how right you were to worry! In the time it took for her words to travel across the wide oceans and into my hands, her beloved brother and sister-in-law had perished.
I frantically shuffled through the rest of the stack, skimming, scanning.
Postcards from Boston and Newport from family, friends, and neighbors, filled with meaningless pleasantries. Thank-you notes from acquaintances, invitations to tea. A letter, five years old, from Aunt Pru, sent from Rome, describing the Colosseum and catacombs. Nothing else—just the terrible omen of a family curse come to pass!
Might it be that Pru was dead as well? I myself had only narrowly escaped an untimely end out there with Mother and Father. Perhaps I would be the next to suffer the Simmons family curse. I dropped my head to my knees and closed my eyes. A dark, thrilling thought crept into my brain. Maybe the curse would claim Uncle Victor. I shook the notion from my mind, ashamed of myself.
It was all too much to take in, following the mysterious incident in the library, the drama on the shore. I gathered the letters strewn about me and tied them back in a bundle, except for the only one that mattered. That one I slipped safely beneath the layers of my mattress. The remaining stack I shoved into the deep recesses of my wardrobe chest.
What to do … what to do?
My mind raced wildly. But my eyes were heavy.
The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Page 3
