by Fortune Kent
The man in the hall, Beth thought. “I saw him earlier,” she said, “and I didn’t recognize him either.”
“I heard a bit of what was said. I think he comes from Albany.”
Albany? Beth was surprised. She thanked Alice again and went to the front hall and up the stairs. Albany! Who would visit Jeffrey from the state capital? And why? She frowned. She had no answers.
Beth hesitated before the door to the solarium, a room which had been one of the last additions to the new section of the house. She heard voices inside and raised her hand to knock. Wait, she told herself. What was Jeffrey up to? Why was the man from Albany here? Strange for him to come by night, especially this particular night. Were they plotting behind her back to undo the promise she had made to Matthew and the tenants?
She leaned forward to listen, but the door was solid oak and the words were an indistinguishable murmur. Beth looked up and down the corridor and noticed the door to the next room was open. She put her head inside. An empty bedroom. She went in and after easing the door shut followed the pathway of moonlight across the room. The window opened like a door, and she turned the latch and stepped onto a narrow balcony.
Below her the lawn glowed with a pale luminescence under the rising moon, and all around the house the huddling trees swayed darkly against the sky. She shivered in the breeze, feeling the moist air from the river on her face.
Light gleamed from the solarium, and she heard the crackle of the fire. She leaned on the stone balustrade, careful to remain where no one inside could see her. The men must be near the open window, she decided, for she heard their voices despite the night noises from the nearby woods.
“…make sure I understand,” Jeffrey was saying. “There will be a hundred men?”
“A hundred more or less,” replied a voice she didn’t recognize. “We intend to take no chances with men guilty of rebellion.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to see another fiasco like we had this afternoon.”
“You’re not dealing with a county sheriff. Colonel Kearney has planned the operation himself. We know the rebel leaders will all be there; in fact, they’ve already left for the meeting, Dr. Smith and five or six others. They know we suspect their other rendezvous spots, and only by chance did our man stumble on this emergency meeting place. We leave in an hour, and by midnight Matthew Smith and the other ringleaders will be on their way to jail.”
All of Beth’s senses were alert. Matthew! Rebellion! Jail by midnight! But where was Matthew going? Where was the meeting?
“More sherry?” The voice, she thought, belonged to Charles.
“Thank you, no, not if we’re to row out to your damned island tonight.”
Beth gasped. The island. A cold gust of wind sent tremors through her body, and she pulled the top of her dress tighter about her neck.
“Not so much of a row,” Jeffrey replied. “The island’s just offshore. You have the maps?”
“Yes, and your two guides.”
“They know the island like the backs of their hands. Even blindfolded they could show you the way to the vaults. Here, take just a drop more, come.” A murmur of protest followed by assent. “To success,” Jeffrey toasted. “Success,” came the reply.
Beth had heard enough. She hurried across the empty room, opened the door, and glanced along the hall. No one. She held her skirt high and ran to the rear of the house and into her bedroom.
Matthew and the leaders of the anti-renters were meeting on the Isle of the Seventh Sentry. Should she go back and confront Jeffrey and try to stop them? No, now even if he wanted to he probably couldn’t hold off the militia. No longer was the so-called crime a failure to pay rent. With the attack on the sheriff it had become a matter of sedition, of rebellion. She knew what she must do. She must go to the island.
Who could help? Certainly not Mrs. Jamison. Alice? Probably she’d be more hindrance than help. Who then? There was no one and her dog Thunder was dead. Her stomach tightened, and she trembled although the room was warm. She must warn Matthew. And to warn him she must go to the island alone.
Chapter Nineteen
She threw open the wardrobe and examined her dresses—the maroon? the gray? the lavender? Wait, she told herself, I mustn’t panic into hasty, unconsidered action. Pause a moment and decide what I should do. Plan. Matthew’s freedom depends on me.
Beth left the wardrobe and sat on the edge of the upholstered chair beside the bed. Her fingers gripped the knobbed ends of the arms and gradually her roiling thoughts settled, sorted themselves into a pattern.
What did she know? Matthew was on his way to Sentry Island, probably to decide strategy for tomorrow when he would present the petition. She frowned. The anti-renters must have a better reason for meeting in such an out-of-the-way place. Had they been warned of the arrival of the militia?
She was positive the stranger in black was a member of the state militia. Could Matthew have discovered that the state troops had been summoned after the tenants attacked the sheriff? Had he arranged the island meeting in haste and, unknown to him, been found out? The most likely explanation, she thought.
What must she do? First, dress simply, something dark would be best. Get a horse from the barn without rousing the household. Take a light. She had seen lanterns in the barn. Find one there. Was a lantern necessary with the moonlight soft and hushed as the light in a shaded parlor on a winter afternoon? But hadn’t Jeffrey said the meeting was in the vaults below the ruins? Yes, he had. She needed a light.
The vaults. Beth shivered. In anticipation? The answer to her past could be hidden in those crypt-like rooms. In fear? She saw again the vines reaching down over steps descending into the darkened underground, heard the water dripping from slime-covered rocks.
Beth pushed herself from the chair. Go. Now. What had Mrs. Shepherd always said? Don’t be afraid of the day you never saw. Beth peeled the dress over her head and dropped her petticoats to the floor. She chose an older gray dress and slid it over her head, then buttoned on a black jacket. Opening the silver box on top of the dresser she took a handful of phosphorus matches, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and put them in her pocket.
She slipped from the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the side door. Luck was with her for she met no one. She hurried along the path and found the lawn a silver lake around her. When she looked back she saw a hundred moons reflected from a hundred windowpanes.
The door of the barn was open a foot or two, and Beth waited outside, listening to the neigh of a horse and the thumping of hooves on the wooden floor. A murmur of voices came from the tack room on the far side of the stalls, and when she edged inside the door, she saw the shadows of two men on the wall. She noted the location of the bridles hanging on pegs and the lantern on the table. One of the men laughed, clapped the other on the shoulder and, after extinguishing the light, walked with him through the rear door.
Beth went directly to the tack room, slid a bridle from a peg, and picked up the lantern. No time for a saddle—the men might return at any moment. She counted the stalls—one, two, three, four. Lady Barbara tried to nuzzle her shoulder while she inserted the bit and adjusted the headstall. After the bridle was secured, the horse docilely followed Beth from the barn.
Outside, Beth circled the lawn, keeping hidden in the shadow of the trees, until she found the trail to the river. Leading the horse by the reins with one hand and clutching the lantern with the other, she walked along the path until she came to a fallen tree which she used as a step, throwing one leg over the horse, grasping the mane to pull herself astride, dress high on her thighs. Once mounted she hunched over the horse’s neck as she had many times when she lived on the farm. She urged Lady Barbara down the winding trail, and after a few minutes she sighed, finding the horse knew the way.
One of Beth’s hands gripped the reins and the lantern, the other held on to the mane. Her knees, tight against the horse, ached from the jouncing. At the same time she felt a sense of relief, almost an ener
vating calmness of mind. As though the tension had risen and risen during the last few weeks as a thunderstorm piles up over the mountains on a sultry day, and now she knew the release brought by the first sweep of rain.
They reached the river, and Lady Barbara’s hooves clumped on the soft earth. Overhead Beth saw a panoply of stars, and along with the feeling of relief she knew doubt and a sense of insignificance. What effect could her comings and goings have? Events seemed to be rushing past her. She pushed the thought aside. She must do what she could for Matthew. And yet she realized that the closer she came to the island and to Matthew, the farther she removed herself from Jeffrey.
Forget Jeffrey. Forget the strength of his arms, the touch of his lips on hers. Matthew needed her—diffident, lost Matthew. Big Thunder? She saw Matthew not as the leader of men but as a man adrift, as though he too had suffered a shipwreck and now sought an island of his own where he could escape from the aimless currents shifting him this way and that.
The boathouse. No one about, either at the tumbledown building or along the shore. She swung down from Lady Barbara. The lock had not been fixed, and she pulled the door open and saw the boat’s dark shadow inside. Should she tether the horse? No, she didn’t want to leave a trail, so she slapped Lady Barbara’s hindquarters and watched her trot back along the path toward the estate.
After opening the door to the river, Beth untied the mooring lines and pushed the boat into the open water by thrusting the oar against the dock. The rowboat drifted aimlessly, waves slap-slapping on the sides, until Beth swung the oars into position and felt them dig into the water. The boat surged ahead. Over her shoulder Beth could see Sentry Island crouched under a layer of fog.
Swing the oars back, dip, pull forward, lift. Swing back, dip, pull. The rhythm soothed her, and while she rowed she unlocked the secret drawer in her mind and found inside, as she knew she would, the day when Jeffrey brought her to the island, the pictures outlined as sharply as those seen in a stereoscope. She looked at them one at a time, clear and unchanging—Jeffrey rowing, Jeffrey pacing across the rocks telling her the story of the seventh sentry, Jeffrey kissing her beneath the bridge while the rain drummed on the leaves. She smiled to herself and replaced the pictures one by one, slid the drawer shut, and turned the key in the lock.
Why did her thoughts return time and again to Jeffrey and not to Matthew? Matthew who was so obviously fond of her? Matthew had decisively banished the vestiges of the past from his house. Did she question whether be could as easily remove the harmful remnants of his former life from his heart? Or did she want Jeffrey because he was so unattainable? Would she always want what she could not have?
The dark hulk of the jetty thrust into the river. A single rowboat bobbed alongside. Beth brought her boat close beside the stone structure only to find the tide was out and the jetty, which had no steps, was too high for her to climb. The beach looked clear so she rowed toward the shore, and when the boat scraped to a stop, she lifted the oars and laid them lengthwise at her feet. The boat lurched beneath her as she held one side and edged her way to the prow where she discovered several feet of water between her and the shore, saw the boat rocking back and forth on a log just below the surface. She stepped onto the log, leaped forward, and felt her right foot sink into the mud. “Oh!” she cried, sprawling on the pebble-strewn beach.
Beth sat up rubbing her ankle. She stood, testing her weight on the foot. The ankle was sore, but she was able to walk. She limped to the water’s edge. “Oh, no,” she murmured. The boat had floated free, and was beyond her reach, and with the water’s ebb and flow drifted farther and farther from the shore.
Tears of frustration came into her eyes. The boat lost, her return to land cut off. Her venture had gone so well until she landed. As though the island had lured her here and was now making sure she could not leave. She knew a spasm of panic, was frozen, unable to think or move. Yet she must go on, find the vaults and Matthew.
She willed herself to leave the beach and immediately realized the night had darkened. When she looked above her, she found the mist stretched across the sky in wraith-like streamers, the moon a pale shimmer of light directly overhead. Where was the path? Beth explored the upper limits of the beach. The path, so easy to find by daylight, was nowhere to be seen. Should she light the lantern? No, she decided, she could not risk discovery by Matthew’s enemies. She knew the direction of the ruins and struck off inland, keeping the sound of the lapping water to her left.
The vines tangled about her feet, forcing her to walk slowly, feeling her way, each step requiring a moment of trial and error. Beth could not see the river—she was lost in a world of white mist above and black undergrowth below. Where was Matthew? She had expected to find a guard at the jetty. Was she being led on a fool’s errand? She began to doubt her memory—Jeffrey’s words had seemed so clear when she listened from the balcony. Had she misunderstood?
What was that? She paused. A splash from the river? Jeffrey had said fish shunned the island. Or had that been long ago? She strained to hear. An oar? The sound of the waves on the rocks? She couldn’t be sure.
The mist was cold on her face as she walked on, and her hair was damp and stringy against her neck. Beth clutched her jacket closer with one hand. The fingers of the other hand ached from the pressure of the lantern’s thin wire handle. A dark shape materialized in front of her, a column entwined with vines. The ruins. Not far to go.
Wait. Another sound. Definite. Not from the river this time. Nearby and behind her. Was someone following? She opened her eyes wide, straining to pierce the night and the haze. She saw nothing except the swirls of shifting mist.
Beth walked a few more feet with her hand groping before her until she felt the smooth wet surface of the column. She turned, her back to the stone shaft, and faced the way she had come. The sound again, nearer now. Listen! A slithering. Behind and below. A quick sssst, followed by silence. Slithering closer to her. Listen! Another one, behind and to the right.
She leaned back until the pain from the edge of the column between her shoulders stopped her trembling. She held the lantern away from her body, ready to strike whatever followed her. Again the stirring of the vines, the scurry of pebbles, the It snaking through passageways between vines and damp earth.
Beth choked and turned and ran. Her foot snagged on a runner, and she fell full-length, the lantern jarred from her fingers to fall to one side. She reached and felt along the ground, found nothing except the tubular vines and slimy leaves. Where was the lantern?
Ssssst. The sound again, and she pictured scaly shapes crawling toward her, tongues licking in and out in search of her legs. She stood and ran. A darkness, blacker than the night, jutted above her, solid, serrated—the altar.
She crawled up the steps, slipping, sliding, fell exhausted on the flat surface at the top. The noise came on, followed her to the base of the pyramid, stopped as though reluctant to leave the shelter of the vines. She gasped for breath, shaking, wet, and cold.
Beth put one hand beneath her, the rough surface pricking her palm, and pushed herself up until she leaned on her elbow. The vaults, she remembered, were just beyond the pyramid. She breathed deeply, the icy air searing her throat. When she knelt she discovered her knees were raw and sore. Her dress was wet and torn. I’d make an unappetizing sacrifice, she thought. She climbed down the far side of the altar and knew the joy of an explorer on hearing, after months of battling the ocean, the exultant cry of “Land!” from the crow’s nest. She gave an involuntary sigh and smiled. Pale, flickering. Indistinct, yet real. Clear one moment, obscured by fog the next. But there, undeniably there.
A light shone through the night. She was vindicated. She had not come on a wild-goose chase after all.
The light was low to the ground, and she stumbled ahead until she saw an opening in one of the vaults, an opening screened by roots and ferns. A stairway dropped away, at her feet, and she descended step by step, one guiding hand on the damp wall. At the bot
tom the light from an open door on her right showed a long passage disappearing into the gloom. She heard the drip, drip of water on stone. A cobweb caught in her hair and spread over her face, and she reached and brushed away the clinging net-like strands.
Inside the door, a slab of wood in a cast-iron frame, she found a small room with a stove, a table, and two chairs. A candle burned on the table. She looked at the stone wall opposite the door and saw the black night through two narrow apertures near the ceiling. A cot-like bed was along one wall. No one was in the room, no one at all. Where was Matthew? Had he been here and gone?
Beth walked to the table. Thick white rivulets of wax clung to the sides of the candle and formed obscene lumps on the metal holder.
The door clanked shut behind her.
Beth whirled. John Price stood with his back to the door, smiling, arms folded across his chest. He walked to her, slow, deliberate, and lifted her chin with his forefinger.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
Beth jerked her head aside and backed away from John Price until she felt the table sharp on her thighs, the candle throwing her shadow over John and the entire wall behind him. “Wh-what?” she stammered. What had happened? Where was Matthew? Why was John Price here? Fear coursed through her, rose to her throat. She tightened her lips to stop the twitching of her mouth.
John smiled, triumphant, and she grimaced to see his uneven black-stained teeth. His mouth and eyes were dark interruptions in an otherwise pale face. His blond eyebrows were almost invisible, and his hair, falling shaggy on his collar, was the color of corn silk. She searched desperately for the door and found only John’s massive body seeming even larger because of the loose jacket and the dirt-stained pants half out of laced boots.
She reached behind her and gripped the edge of the table. “What are you doing here?” she gasped.
“Making sure you don’t get back.”
