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 document 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 assured her inheritance. Now she could better understand why Madam Rooke, in turn, had passed 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 passed 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, sturdy 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 passed.”
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 canal 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 canal 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 canal 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.