The Sea Keeper's Daughters

by Lisa Wingate

  Maybe this trip was about my finally coming to that understanding. If I let my father’s decision dictate the rest of my life, I was only giving that moment endless power.

  I’d given it enough already.

  I imagined myself casting it into the breeze as the miles drifted by, letting it sail off into the ocean, where God could master it with winds and tides.

  The National Seashore finally faded, giving way to the stilt homes and quaint shops of Rodanthe, Avon, Waves, and Salvo. I studied restaurants and stores along the road, idly speculating about real estate costs, rental terms, potential customer traffic, the unpredictability of hurricanes and nor’easters.

  By the time I passed through Buxton, I’d almost lost myself in the fantasy that I was here scouting property for a new corporate start-up. I had the surge of adrenaline that came with ditching an old location and moving to a new one. The early stages of launching a restaurant were so chaotic that there wasn’t time to think about anything else. I liked that. It was a comfort zone. A haven of busy white noise.

  Reality crept in again as the little community of Fairhope appeared ahead, its marina glistening in the sun, boats lounging lazily in the early-season stillness. A small billboard invited passersby to the Benoit House Museum. Dedicated to the Preservation of Outer Banks Maritime History, the sign read. Mansion tours, historical programs, weddings, meetings, and group events by appointment. Tour bus parking available.

  Turning off the highway, I passed the docks and Bink’s Village Market, then curved left toward the steeple of a little white church nearly hidden in the trees ahead. A sign pointed tour buses toward the church parking lot and funneled cars into the driveway of a gorgeous Victorian home. Lounging beneath the shade of loblolly pines and live oaks, it seemed almost a part of the landscape. Its ornate gingerbread trim and two tiers of wraparound porches, the tall white turret clad in scalloped shingles and the rooflines pitching at all angles—all evoked the opulence of a bygone era when shipping tycoons amassed vast fortunes.

  The parking area in front of a small caretaker’s cottage, now marked Office, was empty. It wouldn’t be for long, apparently. A tour bus was rumbling past, headed for the church.

  I hurried into the cottage, where the museum director was giving instructions to a young assistant behind the counter. “The group will be next door checking out the church and watching the Benoit history film for about twenty minutes, then they’re coming here. The caterer should show up any minute with the finger-food buffet for the ballroom.”

  “Ohhh-kay. I think I got it.” The twentysomething helper exited the cottage looking frazzled and terrified.

  My hopes sank. I’d shown up at a bad time. I wanted to turn around and walk out, but that really wasn’t an option. There was the small matter of a commercial range hood repair bill to consider.

  How would the museum director feel about my reason for being here? Did people often walk in off the street, looking to sell things?

  I tried to appear confident as I offered my hand and introduced myself, but the heat of a blush was working its way up my neck.

  Tandi Chastain smiled as if she knew me already. Dressed in slacks and a silk shirt, her dark hair smoothly fastened into a twist, she gave off a businesslike yet relaxed impression.

  “Kellie called from up in Manteo and told me you were coming,” she revealed. “Are you in a huge rush? If you can hang out a little while, I’ll have the time to really sit down and look at what you’ve got for us.”

  I would’ve hugged Kellie-of-the-rainbow-hat if she’d been close enough just then. She’d done the hard work for me. I didn’t even have to explain myself. “Oh … sure. That sounds fine.”

  “Sorry about the delay. I know you’re in a hurry.” Tandi touched my arm sympathetically, and I wondered what else Kellie had told her about me. Did she know I was desperate? “Why don’t you go on over and check out the museum for a few minutes while I make sure Lily’s got things under control at the church? She’s new here, on a mini-mester internship from college. Good kid, but about as green as they come. She loves history, though, and she’s got a fascinating research project going, involving what happened to the Lost Colony survivors up on Roanoke, so we’re glad to have her.”

  “Nice place to have an internship—Hatteras Island, I mean … and the museum. The house is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you. We’re really proud of it.” Snatching a clipboard and keys off the counter, she angled toward the door. “Enjoy. There’s a volunteer docent there if you have any questions. If you see the caterer, tell him the food goes to the ballroom—just kidding. The docent knows what’s happening. Check out the exhibits. Some of the pieces have been gathered over time, but most of the collection was left behind by a very special lady who lived here almost all her life. She loved the house and the Outer Banks and wanted to see the history preserved for future generations.”

  Preserved for future generations. By contrast, I was selling off the family heirlooms piece by piece and contemplating ditching the Excelsior so that a condominium tower could take its place. What would Tandi Chastain think of me if she knew? “She must’ve been someone special.”

  “Oh, she was.” Tandi led me through the cottage door, then closed it behind us. “There’s still a lot of her in that house.”

  In the upstairs turret room, I sensed the legacy of the house’s former owner. The room had the feel of a holy place. Beneath the fresco ceiling, blue and ivory paneled walls stretched upward, whispering with framed pages and quotes from writings Iola Anne Poole had left behind. Her words brought to life the Outer Banks and its people. Theirs was a struggle through storms and rebuilding, economic disasters and recoveries, losses and gains, heartbreak and hope. The unpredictable journey of an existence by the sea.

  Suddenly it struck me that so many of the things I’d thought of as world-turning and earth-shattering probably weren’t. Life is a process of storms and rebuilding, of fires and regrowth, of loss and gain.

  Wandering the room, I read Iola’s letters, felt them touch so many parts of me.

  She lays her tired head on my shoulder and looks through the shell with me, into the great mystery. I think again that heaven must be like this place, and I say that to Isabelle. I wonder, When she is in heaven and I am not, how far away will she be?

  “It’s just another journey,” she whispers… .

  I thought of my mother, of how desperately I wanted her to be here a little longer, a lot longer, forever. Sometimes it seemed that I should be able to change things, to alter the course of events, just by wanting it badly enough. But I couldn’t. Iola’s observations said as much.

  We, in our humanness, cannot help but foolishly desire eternity in this life.

  I was standing in the blue room, contemplating the thought, when Tandi Chastain came to find me. “Well? What do you think of it?” Bracing her hands on her hips, she gave the room a visual sweep.

  “The museum? It’s impressive.” The house itself was a feast for the eyes, the walls framed with elaborate gold-leafed cornices, the ceilings adorned with clouds and angels, the leaded-glass windows filling the rooms with tiny rainbows.

  Taking a long breath, Tandi looked around the room. “There’s so much history here. It’s a shame for visitors to come and go from the Outer Banks and not learn about it. The past shouldn’t be lost.”

  I had a feeling that last part was for me—that Kellie had briefed her on the shopkeepers’ concern about the Excelsior and its contents. But instead of thinking about the building, I thought of Alice, of her journey with the Federal Writers’ Project. Perhaps her story shouldn’t be lost either. Maybe it had as much power as the one preserved within these walls.

  “Let’s go over to the office and see what you’ve brought.” Tandi ushered me toward the stairs. Below, a few visitors had already begun wandering over from the church. She waved at the guests as we crossed the lawn, the two of us making pleasant chitchat about the differences between life on Hatter
as and farther north on Roanoke.

  “The museum gave us tickets to the Lost Colony drama up there last year,” Tandi offered. “Paul and the kids thought the amphitheater was a neat experience. The show was spectacular, especially with the water in the background. It was good information as well. We have a bit of the Lost Colony mystery here, too.”

  The intern interrupted before Tandi could fill me in on the rest. Catching us in front of the cottage, she cast a wild-eyed look at her boss. “Okay, I finally got everyone outta the church. Sorry I didn’t make it over before they showed up at the house. It’s like herdin’ barn cats. They don’t all go the same place at the same time.”

  Tandi laughed. “Take a breath, Lily. It’ll be okay. You don’t have to be everywhere at once. There’s a docent inside and the caterer’s there. They both know the drill.”

  The intern fanned her flushed cheeks. “They kept askin’ me questions. I thought I’d studied a lot to get ready to work here, but I’m gonna have to study some more.”

  Tandi looked pleased. “The questions mean you had them interested. Just wait until they get upstairs to the Benoit brothers’ papers.”

  Lily’s face brightened. “That I do know somethin’ about.”

  “True. Now, you just keep that thought in mind and wow them with your expertise on the brothers’ exploits and all things Lost Colony.”

  “Well … I’m not really an expert.” Lily blushed.

  “You’re the closest thing we’ve got. Go entertain the folks with tales of expeditions, archaeological digs, arrowheads, and of course the signet ring that was found here on Hatteras. Oh, and don’t forget the scrimshaw necklaces and the boat in the Great Dismal Swamp. That can’t help but fire up some fascination … and fascination does … what?”

  “Brings in the money.” Lily giggled, then turned and started toward the house.

  Tandi watched her leave. “I love these college kids. Without them, we’d have a tough time affording all the staff we need around here. Lily has read literally everything there is on Sir Walter Raleigh’s Lost Colony. She has a particular interest in it—long story—but when we were renovating the mansion, we found an old metal box full of arrowheads, pipes, and other artifacts. There were also bits of what seem to be the wood and hand-wrought metal from a boat, and a woman’s carved ivory hair comb of the right period to have been Lost Colony. That’s part of the research project Lily and our other interns will be working on this summer. We think it’s possible that the Benoit family history may hold some clues to the mystery of what happened to the Lost Colonists after they vanished from Roanoke Island.”

  “Really?” Having spent so many summers in Manteo, where everyone had a theory about what had become of the colonists, I couldn’t help but catch a bit of Tandi’s enthusiasm. I’d never heard that my ancestors had some connection to it, but then I knew so little of the Benoit family history. Grandmother Ziltha didn’t like to talk about it.

  “This house originally belonged to Girard Benoit, who’d made a fortune in shipping. His sons grew up summering here and developed a fascination for shipwrecks and other historical sites. As young men, Stephen and Benjamin were famous for spending extravagant amounts of money while chasing after Blackbeard’s cache and Lost Colony relics, but they kept the locations of their explorations secret. We know they dug around here, and that they journeyed up the Great Dismal Swamp in Virginia. Unfortunately, we don’t know exactly where they found the items they uncovered. All we have are notations from Benjamin Benoit’s personal journals, and he was more of a romantic than a scientist.”

  “I always thought Benjamin was primarily a ship’s captain.” My mind was whirling, calling up lines from Alice’s letters—mentions of Ziltha’s dashing husband. My grandfather was a treasure hunter? He grew up here, in this house?

  Tandi gave me a meaningful look. “When Kellie called to tell me you were bringing some things from the Excelsior building, I was hoping you might have a few pieces to our puzzle. If we can find anything that further documents the Benoit brothers’ expeditions, we want it. We actually discovered some love letters in the wall of the caretaker’s cottage here when we redid the plumbing. Stephen Benoit had a secret romance with a Creole servant named Esther. When the Benoit brothers went on expeditions, she traveled along as a cook, and it looks like there was something of a love triangle involving the beautiful Esther. Eventually, the family sent Stephen to sea and arranged a respectable marriage for Benjamin, in hopes of squelching the scandal. The Excelsior Hotel was purchased as a wedding gift, to settle the new couple into happy matrimony. In reality, though, Benjamin’s wandering ways continued. He spent more time in the field and at sea than he did at home with his wife. Esther was only one of several women he strayed with before he drowned at Diamond Shoals.”

  I realized we’d stopped on the porch, and I was just standing there staring at Tandi, my thoughts rushing through a wild web of connections. The family arranged a respectable marriage … “My grandmother Ziltha was Benjamin Benoit’s wife.”

  Tandi blinked. “Your grandmother was Ziltha Benoit? I figured you were farther down the line somewhere.”

  “I was a Benoit before I married. My dad was Ziltha and Benjamin’s only child, Arthur Christian Benoit, but he was in his forties when I was born, so my grandmother was old, from the time I can remember. She resented the Benoits, and all I really knew was that there was some kind of long-standing family feud. She and my father had been disinherited sometime after my grandfather’s death.” Benjamin Benoit had mistresses? Multiple mistresses? Was my grandmother aware of that?

  The Ziltha I remembered—stoic, sour-faced, aloof, critical—underwent a rapid metamorphosis in my mind: starry-eyed young girl, heartbroken wife, devastated mother-to-be, lonely widow forced to raise her son alone. Old, long before her time. “Let me go … get the box out of my car. I don’t know if any of it will help answer questions, but now I’m definitely curious.” I left the porch, my thoughts suddenly crowded with the hidden details of my grandmother’s life.

  Clearly Alice hadn’t even begun to understand her sister’s situation. She’d spoken of the marriage with romantic fascination, as if Ziltha were living a fairy tale, married to a dashing sea captain many a young woman would have swooned over.

  Could it be that Alice had abandoned Ziltha just when Ziltha’s life was spiraling out of control, when she needed someone the most? Was that why Alice’s letters had been discarded unread, why I’d never known that my grandmother had a twin sister? Was destroying the letters a form of retribution … or a desperate attempt to survive the painful disappointments in her life? Suddenly I could relate to her in a way I never had before. I knew what it was to have a husband cheat and lie, to have a marriage fall apart, to discover that the future you’d imagined wasn’t the future you would get.

  Taking the box from my car, I stopped, looked at that opulent white house my grandmother might have visited as a young bride. The house my father might have inherited, had circumstances been different. How would they feel about my coming here, inadvertently releasing skeletons from the family closet?

  Tandi was waiting at the counter in the front room of the cottage when I entered. She gave the box a look of anticipation.

  “So, let’s see what you’ve got here.” She put on a pair of thin gloves, and I thought about how carelessly I’d handled my finds. She’d probably be shocked if she knew. Once again, I felt like a down-and-out Vegas gambler, stumbling into a pawnshop after a night of drawing unlucky cards.

  Tandi focused on the box. “I appreciate you bringing these things for us to look at first. So often, stuff ends up on eBay and from there it goes into private collections, and we never have a chance.” The top sheet of paper clung to the side of the box, seeming to resist the pull as she lifted it. “Now, I won’t be able to talk prices with you today, other than to tell you if we might be interested and maybe give you a rough estimate, depending on the item. Everything here has to be verified by histor
ical experts, and I’m not one. Those approvals can take a little while. I hope Kellie explained that.”

  A brick clinked against my ribs and landed in my stomach. “Oh … how … well, how long might that be?”

  Gingerly, she took out the ship’s manifest and opened it. “A couple days, maybe a week, depending on the item and who we have to call in for authentication. Of course, that’s only if it’s something the museum can use, and quite frankly, if we can come up with the budget for it. We’re funded by historical grants, private donations, and event rentals.”

  “I see.” What if this trip to Hatteras was a total strikeout? On top of the range hood issue, payroll was due and so was my rent.

  “Oh, this is nice.” Tandi unearthed the taffrail device and dangled it by the cord. “They used these to calculate how fast the ships were moving, back in the day. This one is especially ornate, with the scrollwork … and yes, that’s the Benoit crest. Chances are, this belonged to one of Benjamin Benoit’s ancestors and was given to him. We’ll see if we can match it to any of our existing documentation from the shipping company. Anyway, it’s beautiful. We’ve paid as much as three thousand dollars for similar artifacts, and given that these have a Benoit history, we might get clearance to go a bit higher. Where did you find them, exactly?”

  “In an old davenport desk in the Excelsior building. I was always told that the desk had belonged to Benjamin.”

  “Wonderful. That helps establish the chain of ownership. I’ll need you to write down what you know about the items. You can e-mail it to me later.”

  “Okay. Sure.” But the later part had me concerned. While the dollar figure sounded like a gift, the process here would obviously be lengthy.