The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons

by Barbara Mariconda

  Uncle Victor turned to go, but then hesitated, perhaps thinking that propriety required some kind of a farewell.

  “Ah yes, dear,” he said, gazing just to the side of me in order to avoid my eyes, “you will be missed, of course.” To this I said nothing at all, and Mr. Mathers’s eyes swept questioningly from Uncle Victor to me and back again.

  I saw my uncle tense under his gaze. He was working quite hard at controlling his anger at me for not responding in kind to his deceptive overture. He swallowed and curled his mouth into a smile that barely masked the look of distaste beneath it.

  “Until then,” he said, and to my great discomfort he embraced me—if you call a rigid, cold sort of hug an embrace. I stood stiff as one of the stately pines surrounding the house and did my best to tolerate this deceitful show, put on for Mr. Mathers’s benefit.

  Mr. Mathers opened the carriage door and helped me in. I was delighted to see Georgie there, looking so tiny alone in the back of the buggy. He sat with his arms folded, clutching himself, kicking his skinny legs against the bottom of the seat. He smiled shyly at me, and shimmied over to give me more room. I heard the soft clicking sound that Mr. Mathers made to get the mare moving, this and a gentle snap of the reins. We lurched forward, and I peered out the window at Addie, and at my beloved home.

  Again I was overcome with a feeling of great loss. I sniffled for a bit, wiping my bleary eyes and runny nose with my hankie. Suddenly there was nothing I wanted more than for Mother’s arms to hold me, for Father’s hands on my shoulder. An awkward period of silence followed.

  It was Georgie, finally, who spoke.

  “I wanted to see your big grand house,” he said seriously. “I think that’s why Marni let me come along.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, my voice still thick and coated with tears.

  “What’s the matter?” he said anxiously. “You don’t want to come back with us?”

  I shook my head. “That isn’t it.” Even to me it sounded unconvincing. Georgie looked disappointed, a shadow falling across his small, fine features.

  “Well,” he said, frowning, “your house wasn’t that grand.”

  I shrugged, understanding that he was punishing me for my lack of enthusiasm.

  Georgie gnawed at the edge of his tiny half-moon of a thumbnail. “And, with such a grand house,” he mumbled, “I don’t see why Marni needs to help you anyway.”

  I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Georgie?”

  He continued to kick the seat, peering straight ahead as though he hadn’t heard me. “My house may look grand, but it’s not the house itself, you see. It was being there, so happy, with my mother and father, and Addie. All of that was lost when the accident happened. So, you see, it’s good for me to be with you. You’ve all been kind to me, and you’ve helped me spend my days being productive rather than sulking about pitying myself.”

  I overlooked Georgie’s incessant kicking as best I could and went on.

  “And I’m sure you can understand how having a grand house hardly makes up for losing a mother or a father.” The tapping stopped, and Georgie looked up at me, his bottom lip stuck out, transforming his face into a dark-haired version of his sister Annie’s. He nodded and the tension lifted. We rode along like that, in silence, for some time before the carriage jerked to a stop.

  “Whoa, Gert,” said Mr. Mathers to his mare. “Easy now.”

  I leaned forward and glanced out the window to determine what was causing the delay.

  “What in God’s name could be so important that you practically throw yourself in front of my wagon?” asked Mr. Mathers.

  From the angle of the window, it was impossible to see whom he was addressing. I craned my neck and peered out. All I could see was a pair of old boots and some denim trousers, obviously belonging to a rather large man. Georgie and I vied for position at the window, pointlessly, as the man was standing outside of our view.

  “I saw you talking to her!” bellowed the man. “I want you to tell me where she lives!”

  I watched Georgie’s face go white, and I grabbed hold of him as he shrank from the window and melted into the space beside me. It was clear that he recognized his father’s voice, and his reaction to it told me more about their relationship than Walter had disclosed.

  “Down here, Georgie,” I whispered. I lifted my skirts by straightening my legs at the knees and shoved Georgie into the space underneath. I lowered my legs, allowing my skirts to drape over him. I nudged him this way and that until he was mostly covered, and then dragged my traveling bag closer, hopefully concealing any sign of him whatever. I sat still, every muscle in my body tensed, waiting to see what might happen next.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Mr. Mathers evenly. “Now step aside, we have a journey ahead of us.”

  “The sea hag!” shouted the Brute. “I saw her at your place! That witch has my youngsters, do you understand me? And I mean to get them back!”

  Mr. Mathers made that clicking noise again, and the carriage moved a bit before lurching to a stop.

  “Get your hands off of that harness,” Mr. Mathers said firmly. “I don’t want to have to run you off the road, but if you persist, I shall have no choice.”

  “That woman stole my children,” the Brute bellowed, “and you know where they are!”

  I felt Georgie grab hold of my ankle, his fingers pressing painfully into my skin.

  “You’ll be safe, Georgie,” I whispered, but my heart raced wildly.

  “You’re talking nonsense,” said Mr. Mathers. “You have no business here with me. Now let us pass!”

  “You’re lying!” screamed the Brute. I heard Georgie gasp, could feel him cowering beneath my legs.

  “I won’t let him take you,” I said, meaning it with all my heart, terrified that I might not be able to follow through on my promise.

  “Be off with you!” said Mr. Mathers. I heard the snap of the reins and felt the carriage move forward.

  “Who have you got in that fancy carriage, anyway? Is it her—the sea nymph?”

  I watched out the window and, to my horror, saw the Brute lunge toward the carriage door, felt the impact of his large hands against it. The door swung crazily open as Mr. Mathers drove old Gert forward. I thought of reaching for the door and pulling it shut, but feared that any motion on my part might reveal the little stowaway. Instead I clung to the edge of the seat and concentrated on keeping my legs rigid, thus preventing Georgie from tumbling over and out the door.

  The Brute ran alongside us, his wild eyes bulging, his chest heaving. He grasped the edge of the doorframe and leaped toward us, managing to get a foothold along the bottom edge of the rig. I hammered at his grimy fingers and dug my fingernails into his flesh. He yelled and cursed like a banshee but somehow held on. The carriage pitched to the right and to the left, an attempt by Mr. Mathers, I’m sure, to disengage the Brute. Holding my breath, I pried at his thick fingers, my heart threatening to explode. “She isn’t here!” I screamed, and realizing my mistake, added, “Whoever it is you’re looking for.”

  There was a terrible moment when I thought for sure that Georgie and I would be tossed out onto the road, the instant that Mr. Mathers nearly took us into a ditch. The carriage tipped dangerously to the left, sending me and Georgie, still hanging on to my skirts for dear life, sliding across the seat and toward the open door. The Brute clung on, but the crazy tilt of the carriage caused him to lose his footing. He was flung backward and landed sprawled out across the grass. We went crashing on down the road, the carriage door flapping and banging against the side of the buggy like a window shutter in a hurricane. Finally, when the Brute was far out of sight, Mr. Mathers slowed to a halt and jumped from the buggy seat.

  I found myself gasping for breath, my muscles weak and trembly.

  “Where’s the boy?” asked Mr. Mathers, his dark eyes darting frantically around the inside of the carriage.

  “Here,” I whispered, relaxing my legs and m
oving them to the side. Georgie’s head emerged, and he glanced up, my skirts encircling his face like a ruffled bonnet.

  Mr. Mathers’s shoulders slumped in relief. “We’ve left him far, far behind,” he said. “It’s all over. You’re safe, now.” Georgie didn’t move.

  “There’s not a chance of him catching up with us. Probably got the wind knocked clear out of him. Gert and I’ll get you two back in no time at’all, and I surely am not about to tell him where I’ve left you. Come on then, Georgie, it’s safe to come out.”

  For now, I thought uneasily. He’s safe for now. But it was obvious that the Brute was getting closer to finding his children.

  Georgie crept out from under my skirts and wedged himself between me and the wall of the carriage. He seemed quite frail suddenly—his dark hair messed and standing out in all directions, his skinny little arms wrapped protectively around himself. He seemed to me to be as young and vulnerable as a baby bird.

  Satisfied that we were settled, Mr. Mathers secured the carriage door and set off, still driving the old mare a bit more strenuously than I’m sure she was used to.

  When we rolled to a stop, I expected that we’d be on the road in front of Marni’s cottage; however, this was not the case. Mr. Mathers jumped off the buggy seat and led the horse along a narrow path that wound away from the shore, and eventually out behind Marni’s cottage.

  The three of them—Marni, Walter, and Annie—met us there, a look of concern flashing between them when they saw us coming in the back way.

  Mr. Mathers opened the door, and Georgie and I climbed out, the sunlight causing us to squint after the dark of the carriage. My legs felt weak, the muscles quivery, and I thought for a moment that they might give way. Mr. Mathers took Marni aside, and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, their backs to us.

  “Out on the shore road,” I could hear Mr. Mathers saying quietly. “It seems he spied you out at my place. That’s why I came in the back way,” he went on, still whispering. “Thought it’d be impossible for him to catch up to us. Just the same …”

  “I do appreciate it, Marcus,” Marni said softly. “The next time I come by, it will be under the cover of evening, I promise.”

  The weeks that followed had an unspoken tension surrounding them that colored every hour of the day and night. We spent most days out on the boat, honing our sailing skills—this, I’m sure, in part so that if the Brute ventured near the cottage, there would be no sign of us.

  Evenings were spent inside, the windows covered with shades of dark-blue oilcloth, blocking out the ocean breezes that usually kept us cool and comfortable—this because there seemed to be eyes everywhere, watching from the shadows. In every dim nook and dark place, the Brute took shape in our imaginations, invading the safe haven that Marni had made for us. We listened anxiously, tensing at every snapping branch, every rustling in the night. Annie took to sucking her thumb, Georgie to nibbling his nails, and Walter to pacing the floor. Even Mr. Pugsley felt it, as evidenced by his restlessness when awake, and during sleep by disturbing dreams in which his short legs would mercilessly twitch and jerk, and he would yelp and cringe quite piteously.

  We made a show of spending our twilight hours reading quietly, although I, for one, had to read and reread the same page many times before moving on. As the evening stretched out before us, we often set aside our books and spoke of the dreams that we held most dear to our hearts. Walter dreamed of sailing a grand ship of his own, traveling the world over. Annie and Georgie spoke of all of us staying together forever as a family, with plenty of distance between us and their father, the Brute. And you know my dream, the one I shared with Addie—that we would someday find Aunt Pru, and oust Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret from the house so that it would be wholly ours again. Marni listened quietly, never voicing a dream of her own, fingering her silver locket, each moment seemingly fulfilling enough in and of itself.

  It was on one such evening that Annie and Georgie had gone off to bed, reluctantly as usual. Both of them had become light, restless sleepers, the Brute robbing them of their dreams even in his absence. The night was drenched in humidity, the air still and flat in an uneasy, overbearing way. It would only be a matter of time before the thunder rolled across the bay, before the sky was ripped open by lightning.

  We sat together in silence—Marni and Walter and I—the tick of the ancient mantel clock marking the passing of seconds.

  “Maybe I should take them somewhere else,” said Walter, his voice rough, his eyes distant. My heart lurched, and I suddenly realized how much I didn’t want that to happen.

  Marni rocked in her chair and gazed at him. “I believe, Walter,” she said, “that sometimes it isn’t in the frantic doing or the fixing, but rather in the patience, the quiet, in which our answers are revealed to us.”

  “So I should just wait here until he finds us and drags us off?” Walter asked, straining to control his voice so as not to awaken the little ones. “Is that what you think I should do?”

  “Marni won’t let him hurt you!” I blurted. “Will you, Marni?” I turned to Walter. “And when things get especially bad, there’s sometimes …” I hesitated. “Magic,” I said quietly.

  Walter rolled his eyes. I had, of course, never spoken of the magic, of the sparkling mist, partly because since my departure from home it had seemed less real to me. If the truth be known, I could almost believe that it had never really happened. But now, I found that I needed to believe it.

  Marni turned to Walter.

  “Some things are meant to happen and some things not. I’ve learned to listen and to yield to whatever wisdom or revelation comes. I wait until I am sure of the voice inside me—and then I trust it completely. I feel that you are right to stay on here. But you must listen to the voice of your own heart.”

  Walter looked disappointed, as was I. I wanted her to insist that he stay, to assure him that everything would be all right, that she would protect all of us forever. The clock ticked on.

  Marni continued rocking in her chair, the gentle squeak at counterpoint with the ticking of the clock.

  “Walter,” she said quietly.

  He looked up.

  “The only thing I ask is that you wait until that inner voice is clear and true—to wait until the discord in your mind narrows to a single voice. Until that happens, any decision you make may be the wrong one. Do you understand?”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll wait until I can think it through. I promise I will.”

  Suddenly, Mr. Pugsley growled, the fur on his back raised in a sharp ridge.

  We sat for a second, still as stones, the grasp of terror holding us in our seats. Then Marni rose slowly, calmly, and began walking toward the door.

  17

  The seconds slowed to a crawl as Marni slipped back the latch, laid her hand on the knob, and turned it slowly. Walter and I sat, too frozen in fear to question or to protest. I not only felt, but heard my heart throbbing, the blood pulsing in my ears. I was hot and cold all at once, my insides racing out of control.

  We heard the barrel of the doorknob click and disengage the lock. In less than a heartbeat the door flew open with such force that it swung back and crashed against the house, shaking the little cottage to its very foundation.

  I covered my face with my hands. Though I could block out the sight before me, I could do nothing to block out the sound. I shall never forget the words I heard in that moment—they were not the words I expected at all.

  “Thank God I found ye, lass!”

  I dropped my hands and jumped to my feet. It was Addie, dear Addie! She looked frightful—her hair wild with the humidity, her chest heaving, the bodice of her dress drenched in sweat, the hem of her skirt and her shoes covered in dust.

  “Addie!” I yelled, throwing myself at her. So relieved was I that it was she and not the Brute, I scarcely stopped to realize something must be terribly wrong.

  “Listen, now will ye! We haven’t much time!” she said.


  Marni walked over and laid a hand on Addie’s shoulder.

  “Welcome, Miss Addie,” she said quietly. “Come and sit for a moment and tell us, whatever it is.”

  By now Annie and Georgie were standing in their bedroom doorways, concern widening their eyes and furrowing their brows.

  “Come, sit down,” Marni said again, taking Addie by the arm.

  Addie didn’t move.

  “There’ll be no time fer that, I tell ye! Miss Lucy has got to get home, and if I can beg your indulgence, miss, I’d like ye to come along as well. There’s trouble back at the house, there is. I slipped away as soon as I was able, stole the neighbor’s horse to get here, and as ’tis, I fear it might be too late! And, to top it off, the feisty mare ran off, leaving us no way back!”

  “What is it?” I asked, a nauseous feeling snaking around my gut. “Tell us, please.”

  “It’s yer uncle,” Addie said. “I figured out what he’s been up to, I did. I told ye how he’s been workin’ night and day in the lib’ry, and I showed ye how he’d been dippin’ the pen in ink and practicin’ yer auntie’s hand—well, now I know why.”

  She paused, out of breath, and pushed a few damp curls off of her face. The first rumblings of thunder sounded in the distance like a drumroll before a proclamation, and we all inadvertently paused until it stilled.

  “Go on,” I said, my mouth filling with saliva, a hot acid feeling rising from my stomach.

  Addie looked at me, her eyes blazing. She took a deep breath and continued.

  “He’s claimed to have gotten a letter from yer aunt Prudence, he has. Even showed it t’ the judge, so he says—the judge who took over fer the good barrister. The letter—and I’ve managed t’ get a glimpse of it, I have—it says she got word of the tragic passing of her dear brother and sister-in-law. That she sends her condolences and her love t’ ye, but that her plans will not be allowin’ a return t’ the States, that her study and her work make it impossible fer her t’ come and care for ye, or fer the house. That she relinquishes her claim t’ any part of it and asks the court t’ put yer aunt and uncle in charge.”