The Opal-Eyed Fan Part 4

Persis returned to her chamber. The portfolio was still to be gone through, and on the chest in her room lay the watch with the key attached to its fob. Seating herself, she unlocked the case and shook out on the bed a number of doc.u.ments. Two, fastened together with tape, she recognized as letters from those in the attic box. Then there was a long, thrice-folded sheet bearing an impressive seal and in fancy script at the top the words Last Will and Testament.

Persis scanned the strange formal language of that. A pension for Shubal, and one for Molly, as well as a bequest to Mrs. Robison, the cook who had ruled their New York kitchen. Mention of some books to go to Mr. Hogue, and arrangements for a funeral which had been decided upon as decorous before Augustin Rooke had made his decision to come south.

Last of all-"the remainder of my estate and properties to my niece, Persis Rooke." No mention of guardianship. Clearly Uncle Augustin had never thought he would die before she came of age. But he had known his health was precarious before he started-or perhaps he would not admit that to himself.

She read some letters-the most recent one first. It was from a lawyer-a Mr. Lampson Brown in the Bahamas-urging Uncle Augustin to either come or send some reliable agent for the settling of Madam Rooke's estate. Though he mentioned no sums in the letter, it was plain that the inheritance was enough to warrant concern.

The taped letters were much older, of course, time-browned. Persis spread out the first-the ink was very faded. She looked to the window-it was not only that her eyes were unaccustomed to the crabbed writing, but the light had begun to fail swiftly. Clouds were gathering, and again the wind was rising. Such gusts followed that the curtains were blown out into the room and she hurried to close them, securing the shutters when she saw the whipping of the fronds on the palms below. Was a second storm on the way?

Lighting the bedside candle she held the letter page close to that to be able to read at all.

The subject matter was what Uncle Augustin had told her. And the hand was that of an educated person, the contents much to the point. Papers had been found after the death of Amos Rooke which made it clear he was in debt to his New York kin. The writer offered to send the sum so long owed. Her expression was stiff and Persis thought she was unhappy to admit the cupidity of her dead husband, but honesty had won out. The page was signed "Caroline Rooke."

But the second letter contained information Uncle Augustin had not mentioned. It was longer than the first and the hand was shaky, though when Persis compared the dates of the two it had been written only four years after the first.

"To Augustin Rooke, Esquire," she read in a half whisper as she struggled to distinguish the words- I have to ask of you a very great favor, but it is necessary for my own peace of mind that this be done. As you know my late husband had a son born of an irregular union before our own marriage. However, he acknowledged this boy openly and made him his legal heir, since it was clear that at our time of life we would have no children.

Unfortunately this boy, James Rooke (his name a.s.sured to him by adoption) was of a wayward and pa.s.sionate temper. He quarreled continually with his father, took up with bad company, and was a constant source of unhappiness and disgrace for my husband-though he gave James many chances to reform.

When the sea war broke out again with your country, James, much against his father's wishes, sailed on a privateer fitted out here in the islands. This was later captured by one flying the American flag. We have heard nothing from him since- save a rumor that he was killed during a boarding action. Yet until his death my husband clung to the hope that James might still be alive. This, I will admit, I fostered, since it relieved his mind during his long illness.

I made private inquiries which stated that James was seen to fall wounded on boarding the deck. This has been since accepted by our courts to mean death, so his father's estates were pa.s.sed to me.

But very recently I heard another tale-that James, though wounded, escaped, and since has not been seen. I have traced the ship which fought with the Heron and discovered that, by some strange twist of fate, it was owned by you. Since it was not lost, and you may be able to find some of those who served on board-can you supply me with any information they may have about this affair?

James was twenty years of age, of a brown complexion, with dark hair. He had a sword scar across the back of his left hand and was of a reckless spirit.

I await, sir, your reply, since this is a matter of grave importance.

Persis' first conclusion was Amos' wife must have hated James. The fact came through plainly that she had only put up with him for the sake of her husband. And she dreaded James' turning up to claim the estate. How had Uncle Augustin answered this? Persis searched among the papers on the bed.

There was another legal looking doc.u.ment which she puzzled through-a deposition-or the copy of one (for it had copy written across the back) taken from two men. A Captain Willard Owens- Why, she knew Captain Owens. He had retired, but twice he had visited her uncle in New York.

The other was a Patrick Conner and had the word Bosun written in beside it. Both men swore on oath that they had seen such a man as was described in the letter, that he had been wounded, and had died of his wounds the same night-to be buried at sea.

So. Persis laid down that paper. Madam Rooke had more than one reason to be grateful to Uncle Augustin. He had refused the repayment she had offered him, and then he had a.s.sured her inheritance. Now she could better understand why Madam Rooke, in turn, had pa.s.sed a goodly amount of that inheritance over to the older branch of her husband's family. Certainly she had not held the death of her trying stepson against the New York Rookes.

The girl made a neat pack of the letters and papers, relocked them into the portfolio. The key she put away in her small jewel box. But had Uncle Augustin blamed himself for James' death? He certainly had died with a troubled mind.

As she replaced the portfolio in her trunk, Persis was even more keenly aware of the wind now buffeting the house. Some of that fear born in the last hours on the Arrow moved her. But she was safely on land now, not out on the open sea.

Then a sound arose above the wailing of the wind, a sound eerie enough to startle her. It stirred in her again that other fear, the one which had gripped her last night when she had stood in the hall sure that a "presence" had pa.s.sed her by. Shivering, she picked up the candle and went to the door.

According to Uncle Augustin's watch it was only near twilight. Yet night had fallen very quickly. She wanted to be with someone, the memory of those moments of sheer terror during which she had been frozen against the wall growing in her.

She heard a bustle below, a slamming of shutters being barred against the outer world. The door to the veranda was also slammed. Another storm! Persis thanked fate that she was not at sea for this one. Vigorous as wind and wave were, the key was safer than a ship.

Lydia came out of a nearby chamber, also holding a candle.

"This will be a bad one. Do you have a waterproof cape?" she asked.

"No." Persis was bewildered. Was Lydia suggesting they go out into the rising fury of the wind?

"A pity. Hold this, will you." Lydia gave her the candlestick she was carrying and proceeded to shake out a gray bundle she had folded under one arm. It was a cape provided with a hood. She shrugged the folds of cloth over her shoulders, pulled the hood over her head with little regret for the elaborate arrangement of her fair hair.

"I'm going up on the lookout," she stated.

Persis thought of that narrow, railed walk on the roof. What could Lydia mean? The gusting wind might well tear her off that perch. Her consternation must have been mirrored on her face for the other girl laughed.

"Oh, there's no danger really. Henderson, my brother's lookout, is already there. And he will have rigged ropes to hold on to. Just as Mason is waiting below ready to carry a message should a distress rocket be sighted."

"Captain Leverett would take his ship out in a storm- ?"

"How else did he reach the Arrow? He is pledged to do so by his license. The Nonpareil has even weathered a hurricane. Yes, Crewe is waiting for any signal."

She took back her candle and flitted to that other steep stair. Persis hesitatingly went in the opposite direction, slowly descending step by step into the dim, shuttered gloom of the first floor. To go out in a frail ship braving the very teeth of the storm-yes, the man she had known on the wave-washed deck of the Arrow could and would do that. He could not be denied the virtue of courage, no matter what other flaws of character he might have.

Mrs. Pryor was busy in the parlor, checking the windows and shutters. She turned to Persis with an abrupt question: "Are the shutters in your chamber well secured, Miss Rooke?"

"Yes. Will this be a very bad storm?" It seemed to the girl that the house, st.u.r.dy as it appeared, was beginning to shudder under the steady blows of this wind.

"It would seem so. And we are, in a manner, vulnerable here. Though the house is set on stakes and so yields a little to the wind. Otherwise it might, in the worst blows, be pounded off the mound. All the fires are out in the kitchen; we shall have only cold food until this has safely pa.s.sed."

Now she had to raise her voice to be heard over the outside shriek. How could Lydia be out in this-up on the roof? Persis marveled at the girl's recklessness.

"Lydia went up to the lookout," Persis blurted out. She had no control over her hostess' actions, but perhaps Mrs. Pryor could do something.

Mrs. Pryor shrugged. "She and her brother-it is in their blood. And she knows the dangers, though they have plenty of lifelines fastened there. What she will get out of it, save thoroughly wet clothes-" Again the housekeeper shrugged. "And the Captain has already put to sea."

"I don't see how he could-" Persis ventured.

"Best ride out a blow at sea than have his ship torn from its mooring and perhaps beached." The housekeeper made sure of the last fastenings. "Laws, now, just look at that!" She gestured to water seeping in under the closed window. "We'll have to plug that before it reaches the carpet!"

Persis trailed behind as Mrs. Pryor purposefully hurried toward the kitchen. Mam Rose, Sukie, and the other maid crouched on the edge of the hearth as if they were chilled, and a fire still flamed there. Molly stood by the big table, both hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as if she could so deny the fury of the wild elements without.

"Get up!" Mrs. Pryor advanced on the group by the hearth. "Water is seeping in the parlor. And perhaps other places along the east walls. Find the rags, the old towels, and get ready to mop up."

"Water done come in plenty, Miz Pryor." Mam Rose made no attempt to move, as she screeched her answer. "It'll git in through de turtle pen iffen it rise some more."

Mrs. Pryor marched across the floor of the kitchen, stooped to pull up a trapdoor. Flinging it full back she picked up a storm lantern and lowered it, focusing its gleam downward. Mam Rose and the two maids edged reluctantly away from the fireplace to gather up mops and armloads of strips of cloth out of a bin.

"Nigh right up to top, ain't it?" Mam Rose demanded.

Persis had gone forward to look down into a dark pit the housekeeper had uncovered. The light did show the water swirling about. Mrs. Pryor studied the way that arose up a ladder leading to the kitchen.

"Not enough to worry about," she reported briskly.

Mam Rose's thin shoulders hunched. "I'm not stayin' here do the pen break and them big turtles git loose. Don't aim to have one of them climbing up."

Mrs. Pryor slammed the trapdoor back in place. "That's hardly likely to happen, Mam Rose, as you well know. And the sooner you get to mopping the better-all of you."

Seeing Persis' puzzlement she explained. "That is a fresh-water cistern down there. And part of it's a bathhouse. There's a stake side pen between it and the ca.n.a.l where we generally keep a supply of turtles. Turtle soup is excellent, if a little rich."

"You mean this house sits out over part of a pond?" Persis asked.

"Yes. It was channeled from the spring on purpose for protection against Indian raids. One could even escape that way into the ca.n.a.l by going through the turtle pond."

Persis could see the advantage of a supply of water, though she suspected it might be brackish and un-drinkable if the overflow of the seaward ca.n.a.l rose in it. But swimming through a pond of turtles to escape a raid-it sounded like the wildest kind of fantasy. Yet Mrs. Pryor apparently accepted the idea as an added advantage of the house.

"The whole house is not over water," Mrs. Pryor must have caught some of her unease, "just the kitchen. Captain Leverett when he built used the Key method of mounting the house on heavy stakes driven well into the mound. The building, as I said, may shift a little-and it has-but it cannot be ripped loose. And hereabout it is only good reasoning to have another exit in case of trouble. There have been several ma.s.sacres on Keys in the past and people have learned to take precautions. The cistern is filled by the rain troughs-it may rise and then run off into the ca.n.a.l. We wedge the door here when that happens."

Persis tried to imagine a cellar, or what would have been a cellar in any proper house, filled with swirling water, including turtles. All she gained from that was a personal belief it was all a part of the barbaric wrecker life with which she need not concern herself. Turtles! She had seen some of the monsters turned over on their backs, their scaled limbs pawing futilely, and she had felt deeply sorry for the poor creatures, having thereafter no wish to taste the much vaunted soup.

As she backed a little away from the trapdoor she was startled by a crescendo of knocks from the outer door. Someone out there was beating almost frenziedly on the panel. Mrs. Pryor glanced around, and put down the lantern.

"Come!" she beckoned both Persis and Molly to join her. "It will like as not take the three of us-"

With one hand on the latch-bar, the housekeeper gestured for them to take position behind her, as if she feared she might be sent flying inward when she opened the door.

"Ready-" Mrs. Pryor warned during a short lull. Persis saw Molly brace herself and did likewise. Then the door, freed of its fastening, burst inward.

Persis, drenched by the incoming rain, cried out. From hair to shoes she was almost instantly as wet as if she had fallen into the cistern below. And so violent was the a.s.sault of water and wind she could hardly take a breath, gasping like a newly landed fish.

But the fury of the storm swept in someone else. Persis was only aware of a crouching figure who was blown, or rushed near the hearth. Then she gave all the strength she could muster to aid Mrs. Pryor and Molly in, once more shutting and securing the door.

They forced it closed, leaving runnels of rain, even bits of torn leaves on the floor. When the bolts at top and bottom were again set Mrs. Pryor stood for a long moment breathing deeply, her round face red under the draggle of her soaked and wind-twisted cap and hair. Molly's hands were at her breast, which rose and fell with the deep gusts she drew into and expelled from her laboring lungs.

Only Persis turned to see who had come out of the storm. She shrank back, m.u.f.fling a scream only in time. That-that thing-crouched by the hearth hardly looked human!

There were long dark sticks of legs, arms as thin, ending in hands like the claws of some huge predatory bird. And the rest of the body was covered with water-slimed leather, some of that in tatters, topped by a shirt so stained as to be nearly as dark as the leather. But it was the head-now swung around toward the girl- In color it was as dark brown as the wretched rags of the shirt, and it bore no resemblance to any living creature. How could it? With those great upstanding ears like those of a bat, while the eyes were only deep holes not even showing a flicker of life within them. The nose was merely a raised lump in which Persis saw no nostrils, but the mouth was round, pursed, stuck outward from the surface as if this monster sought fiercely to suck at something.

Mrs. Pryor came away from the door. There was no dismay on the housekeeper's face as she stooped to pick up the lantern and set it once more on the table.

"Ill weather, Askra," she commented.

The tattered, mud-smeared creature out of the storm stood up stiffly, as if her joints were racked by rheumatism. Now Persis could see a tangle of coa.r.s.e gray hair on her shoulders, rain-wet into loops which dripped on the floor.

She grunted and reached both bird-claw hands to the back of her head, fumbled there for a moment or two, and then that awful, unnatural face fell forward, lying, still held by a cord, to hang like a bib on her flat breast.

The newcomer was dark skinned, but her features were totally unlike those of the black servants. Instead she had a large, high-bridged nose jutting forward to overhang her mouth and chin, while her forehead slanted back in a way to accent the nose even more.

Persis had seen Indians in the North, the broken remnants of the once proud and feared Six Nations. But this very old woman was very different from those. For all her ragged and filthy clothing she carried herself as if she were mistress here. And she said nothing as she brushed back the matted elf locks of her hair. Her eyes slid past Mrs. Pryor and she did not answer the other's comment. Instead she looked directly at Persis.

Try as she might to break that steady locking of gaze the girl could not move her eyes, nor turn away her head. The other held her in a kind of trance by some force of personality, as if she could so reach directly into the captive's mind and read every thought lying there.

"Rockets!" That cry brought an abrupt end to their confrontation.

Lydia stood in the doorway from the hall. Her cloak was plastered to her body, streams of water ran from it.

"We saw rockets!" she repeated. "There's a wreck on the reef!"

6.

Persis paced the hallway back and forth. She could not sit still, nor could she control the vivid pictures her imagination painted of what might be happening out there, beyond the walls of the house which shuddered under every lash of the wind. Lydia was strung up to a high rate of excitement, but even she did not again seek the dangerous walk on the roof, only chattered faster and faster about other storms and what had resulted from them. She had shed the dripping cloak and now sat on the bottom step of the stair talking, always talking. Until Persis wanted to cover her ears as Molly had done.

She grew so tired with her pacing that at last she was driven to a chair in the dining room where three candles made very small pools of light, and shadows hung over their shoulders like baneful beasts about to seize their prey. As Mrs. Pryor had warned, the food was cold- bread, jam, slices of cured ham, with not even a cup of comforting tea to wash it down.

Lydia still speculated on the prizes which such high seas offered-she seemed to have no thought in her head of lives which might be lost on those vessels caught in the full turbulence of the storm. But she was silenced completely when the crystals in the unlit chandelier over them gave a sudden sharp tinkle, clashing prism against prism, and the very floor under them appeared to shift.

Persis noted that Lydia's hand, resting on the table, closed in a tight grip on the edge of the board, her nails cutting into the heavy linen of the cloth which covered it.

But that lurch of the house was followed by a calm and Persis relaxed a little until Mrs. Pryor came in, herding Sukie before her, examining each windowsill for signs of a betraying trickle of water.

"Is-is it over?" Persis asked.

"Laws, no, Miss. This is the center-what they call 'the eye'-when that pa.s.ses over we'll again have wind." There was something steadying about Mrs. Pryor, as if no torrent of rain, no fury of gale could beset her. As Persis had done she changed into dry clothing and reordered her old-fashioned coiffure, looking her usual self.

But the news she had brought was certainly not encouraging and Persis instinctively braced herself for a return of the fury. She had even lost all idea of time; it seemed to her that the fury had lasted forever. Was it night, morning-? However, tired as she was, she could not have crawled into bed with that rage of elements outside.

Then the blow did start again, even as the housekeeper had predicted, and went on for what seemed like hours and hours, never letting them go. Lydia stopped talking at last. Persis had barely listened to her chatter when the second hard a.s.sault began. Sometimes she could not hear anyway, only see the other's lips moving. They sat in the parlor, a single wavering candle flame between them. Once or twice there came such a crash that Persis was sure a part of the house had been beaten in. But she had regained enough of her own stubborn courage so that she refused to let Lydia see how stark her fear was.

What of the ships out there? The Arrow had been brought to the wharf so that its repairs could be more easily estimated. But with this second battering it might be left in a far worse state. Captain Leverett was on the open sea-daring his ship-and his life with those of his men. The rockets Lydia had sighted- would those who had fired them be as lucky as they of the Arrow had been?

Persis discovered Lydia was watching her closely, with some of the same searching which had been used by the tattered hag who had sought shelter in the kitchen hours earlier.

"Glad you aren't out there?" Lydia's lips shaped a hint of a smile. "The Arrow would never have lasted through this-and probably Crewe would not have dared to steer too close to the reef to help-not in this storm. And Crewe is the best wrecker on the Keys."

Persis did not want to think about the Arrow, she wished she could erase the sounds of the storm as well.

"How did he become a wrecker?" Persis asked.

Lydia pouted. "Because he is so stubborn. He has had his master's papers since he was eighteen; our father was an Indies merchant in the Canton Trade. He wanted Crewe to go in with him but Crewe had to have the sea. So he ran away on one of the China clippers. He was only twelve but he had the same stubborn temper even then!" She laughed. "He still does-hotter than h.e.l.l, Ralph says-only he keeps it all inside. But when he lets go-" She made a gesture which suggested the scattering of bits of emotion. "Anyway, he is a natural-born seaman, and he worked hard. Then he got in with Palmer Briggs-"

Persis gave a start which she was sure that the sharp-eyed Lydia did not miss. Palmer Briggs was well known in New York-too well known and for the worst of reasons.

"Oh, Crewe never commanded a slaver." Lydia's chin lifted a fraction. "Only sc.u.m takes out one of those. But Palmer was interested in wrecking. He'd lost a couple of slave ships to the Navy and they were downright suspicious of anything he sent to sea. So he made a deal with Crewe-to try the Keys and see how it worked. Only right after that Palmer Briggs did fail, in fact he went bankrupt. And Crewe bought the ship somehow from the trustees who took over to settle affairs.

"Then he came down here and purchased this Key, from the widow of Sancho Mendoza who held it by Spanish law. He thought that the Key West men were working together to get rid of those they did not like. And they certainly had no time for Crewe. He's beat them to too many wrecks and made first deals with the captains. This house-he brought ships' carpenters in from the islands to build it." She looked around with pride.

"When my father died, Crewe had me go to school in Charleston in the Carolinas-" She made a face. "Don't do this, a lady never thinks of that, and all the rest!" Her voice made clear her opinion of the school. "I kept begging him to bring me here. What a fool I was!"

Her expression was set now. "I didn't know, you see, just what it would mean being shut away on this-this desert! There was a girl from Key West at school-Sallie Mathews-and she had made life there sound so exciting. But there's nothing to do here. And I don't see how Crewe ever expects me to get married. Married to who- Dr. Veering? He's near old enough to be my father, and besides all he can think of are his plants. And the rescued people from the ships-they stay only long enough to get pa.s.sage away. I might just as well be buried!"