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 hell, 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 scum 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 passage away. I might just as well be buried!”
Persis longed to ask how Ralph Grillon fitted into Lydia’s dismal picture of life on Lost Lady, but she wanted no confidences.
“You’re lucky.” Lydia was watching her again with a slightly calculating look. “You have a good reason to go on to Key West, even to the Bahamas. Just don’t let Crewe try to run things for you, too.”
“There is no reason why he should take any responsibility for my affairs,” Persis tried to make that sound emphatic.
Lydia laughed. “Crewe doesn’t give reasons—he just goes ahead and does what he thinks is proper and suddenly you find yourself under his thumb. So watch out!” She lifted her hand to half-cover a yawn. “I’m sleepy. One gets used to this after a while, you know, and you can really sleep.”
Persis took that for a hint. She did not in the least desire to climb the stairs to her own shuttered room. But Lydia had already blown out one candle and taken up the second. Very reluctantly Persis arose in turn, shielding the very small flame of the last candle with her cupped hand, and followed Lydia up the stairs. She wished now that she had suggested Molly would share her quarters but her pride kept her from carrying out that wish.
Once in her chamber she undressed only to the extent of shedding her dress and slippers, putting on her wrapper and lying on the wide bed ready for any alarm. However, perhaps Lydia was right, one did become accustomed to the continual sound of the storm. For, in spite of the fear she fought so hard to conceal, Persis did fall into a very disturbing sleep.
Disturbed by dreams— Once more she stood pressed against the wall of the upper hall listening to that whisper which might have come from invisible silken skirts brushing against the floor, seeing those slowly weaving glints of light. But this time as the presence passed her she was drawn after it in spite of every force of will she used to try and break free.
Then the walls of the corridor were gone, the house was gone. She was in the open, though around her, at a distance, was a barrier of stone. There was no sign of the storm. It was night and somehow very still, no insect call, not a stir of breeze, only the swish-swish which marked the unseen passing of the presence.
They came to the far side of the barrier. The glints now flickered with greater speed, but always in a constrained area. Then slowly, very slowly, those sank toward the earth, seemed to plunge into the dark surface she could not clearly see. And, at their disappearance, Persis was free.
She awoke. The room steamed with humidity and heat. Her clothing was plastered to her body and her head ached. But for a moment the dream lingered with her so that it seemed she would be not on this wide bed, in a room, but outside in the dark of a night where there was no moon, no star she could remember.
Persis sat up. There had been, she tried to tell herself sensibly, nothing really frightening about the dream. She had not herself been menaced in any way. Why did she then feel so weak, so shaken, as if she had to outrun pursuers bent on taking her life? She rubbed her hands across her sweat-dampened face. Only then she realized that there was no sound of wind or rain. And around the edges of the shutters where she could see was light.
Pulling herself off the bed she went to the near window, listened intently for any sound of the storm. It was as quiet as it had been in her first awakening here. Thankfully she jerked out the tags of rags that maids had tamped in to cover all possible cracks and looked out into a morning which was cloudy, yes, but still.
The vegetation had a ragged look. She saw several fallen palms, and the water in the canal lapped very high against the mound.
The Arrow appeared as if it had been hammed against the wharf, one side stove in. But there was no sign of the Nonpareil at anchorage.
Persis washed in water from the pitcher on the dressing stand, dressed in fresh underlinen and one of her own gowns which Molly had done her best to rehabilitate. It was a pink muslin patterned with small shiny dots, though it looked rather limp and ill used in spite of Molly’s effort to refurbish it.
Now she was aware of being very hungry. Would the fires be lit again? She would like above all a cup of hot tea; her mouth actually felt dry when she thought of it. Tea and biscuits, and perhaps some of the fruit which seemed a usual part of any breakfast here.
There was no use in trying to make her hair curl properly. The damp of the sea wind denied her that small vanity. So she combed and braided it up into a knot which was the best she could do. And then she went out into the hall. For a second the memory of her dream gripped her again—but it was only a dream Persis told herself firmly. She was not going to be continually set aflutter by her imagination.