2
“Have you been to New York then?” Persis eyed her hostess with some impatience. She was hungry, but it was not polite to help herself without invitation.
Lydia’s full skirts swirled out as she turned abruptly. “Me—in New York?” She laughed angrily. “I have been to school in Charlestown, and to Key West, and that is all—since Crewe chose to come here. But I was born in New York—only now I can’t remember it at all.”
She came back to the table and twitched away the net with a vigor which matched her sharp tone.
“To be imprisoned here—it is enough to make one see ghosts—and have all sorts of strange fancies when one is bored.”
She ate only a few mouthfuls of bread spread with a thick conserve. But Persis made a healthy meal of biscuits, some fruit that was strange to her, and several slices of ham cut paper thin but nonetheless tasty. There was a custard, too, which had an unfamiliar flavor but which she relished.
Lydia put her elbows on the table, supported her chin on her clasped hands, and fastened her gaze on Persis.
“Tell me about New York,” she commanded.
Persis had just started to speak when she was interrupted by a loud braying noise. In a second Lydia was on her feet, heading for the door of the house.
“Ship sighted—” She gave only that small bit of information as she darted within.
Catching some of her hostess’ excitement, Persis followed. Lydia was already near the top of the stairs, her skirts gathered up in both hands so she could climb faster.
Three flights they climbed, the third much narrower and more steep—to emerge on a flat space open to the roof, railed about. Lydia jerked a spyglass out of a box fastened against that rail. With it to one eye she peered seaward.
“He dared it!” her voice was high with excitement. “That’s the Stormy Luck coming in, it is!” She was smiling now. “Oh, won’t Crewe be furious! I can hardly wait to see his face when he finds her here.”
“Is that your brother’s ship—?” Persis was puzzled.
“No. His is the Nonpareil. They’re trying to get the Arrow off that reef. This is Ralph’s ship—Ralph Grillon. He’s from the Bahamas.”
“But I thought,” Persis shaded her eyes, but without the aid of a glass all she could make out was a distant shadow, “that the Bahama wreckers did not come into these waters—”
Lydia made an impatient sound. “The sea isn’t fenced in like a field. And the Bahama men were here long before us. They have their rights, even though people like Crewe are too high-handed to credit them with such. Ralph takes the Stormy Luck where he wants—and it can show its stern well away from any cutter out of Key West that tries to make trouble. Anyway, Ralph—” now her smile was both amused and sly, “has a special reason for coming here.” Without offering the glass to Persis she fitted it back in its case.
“But even he can’t make the wind stronger,” she continued. “It may be several hours before—” Then she paused, looking no longer to the sea but down to what lay immediately below the house. And her smile vanished in a distinct scowl.
Persis followed the other’s gaze. The mound on which the house had been erected might be ground linked with the rest of the key on the opposite side, but here water lapped at its foot and there was a channel, leading straight out to sea. The channel opening was flanked by the wharf still piled high with bales and boxes.
A small boat had been launched from the wharf, two men at its oars, and it was at that Lydia stared. She made a fist which she brought down with some force on the railing.
“Johnny Mason!” she spat the name. “He heard the conch horn and he’s off to tell Crewe, the meddler!” She shrugged. “Let him. It won’t profit him—or Crewe any.”
Lydia whisked to the top of the ladder like stairs which Persis had not noticed were so very steep when she had climbed them. Now she descended with caution, guessing Lydia to be lost in her own thoughts and forgetful of her. However, in the upper hall, the other girl paused to look over her shoulder.
That look of discontent, faint as it had been, was gone. Her smile no longer was either angry or sly.
“You asked about the Lost Lady,” she dismissed the subject of the Stormy Luck and its captain, rather to Persis’ bewilderment. “I’ll have time to show you the fan—the ghost fan itself.”
Now she linked arms with Persis—as if they were the best and closest of friends, leaving Persis a little disturbed at this swift change—and drew her into a bedroom which flanked the stair at the head of the hall.
“Sukie,” Lydia spoke impatiently to the black maid who was folding body linen away in the drawers of a magnificently carved chest, “you can* leave that. Go tell Mam Rose that we’ll have company for dinner, special company. We want the Napoleon china and the best of silver. Mind now!”
“Yes’m.” Sukie disappeared, leaving some disorder in the room which, Persis suspicioned, was of Lydia’s initial making. Her hostess was rummaging in what looked to be an old sea chest, talking as she hunted:
“You won’t get any of the islanders to touch the thing; they all say it’s the worst kind of luck. Crewe found it in this—” she prodded the side of the chest with her toe, “all buried under some rocks—what was left of the old pirate fort. I begged him for it. Sukie and the rest know I have it. They think I can ill-wish them or some such foolishness, so they step carefully when I give the orders. It’s a handy thing. Ah, here it is!”
She came into the full light of an open window carrying a carved box which she opened to take out a fan, spreading its sticks to their fullest extent in the sunlight.
Persis had seen the brise fans of intricately carved ivory which the China merchants sometimes offered for sale. And those made in the same fashion of pierced sandal wood, to be used in summer—the perfume of the wood was supposed to be restorative on a very warm day. But this was like and yet unlike either. It was made of carved sticks strung together with ribbon, yes. But the wood of the sticks was dead black. And the heavier end pieces each bore the head of a cat in high relief, the eyes of which were fashioned of shimmering dark blue stones. While the inner carving was again that of cats stalking among grasses, sleeping, sitting.
“Those are what they call black opals,” Lydia indicated the eye stones. “There was a jeweler in Key West who told Crewe that. And he thinks this may be near two or three hundred years old—but he was not sure whether it was made in China or Italy. But it’s magic—the Lost Lady is supposed to have used it to kill Satin-shirt Jack, and then fanned herself out of existence afterward.” Lydia laughed. “Go ahead, take it; these cats neither scratch nor bite—at least they never have me!”
Persis put out her hand with some reluctance. The fan was strange, even though it was beautiful. But it gave her an uncanny feeling—even though she did not believe in its supposed ill luck. She held it close to study the cats. They had—she searched for the right term—a rather unnatural look. In fact, as she held the fan open she had an odd fancy that they were all staring at her measuringly. Quickly she closed the fan and handed it back to Lydia.
“It is indeed unusual,” she commented and knew that Lydia was watching her closely as if expecting some reaction to mark Persis as superstitious as the islanders.
“Yes,” Lydia dropped it back in its box and, return-ing that to the chest, made no move to pick up the garments she had spilled out during her search. “Oddly enough, even though this is always here, when she walks the ghost holds it in her hand. I find the idea of a ghost fan amusing. Now, I must find Mrs. Pryor. If I don’t coax her a bit, she won’t bring out the best wine — Come along if you like.”
Persis shook her head. “I must see about my uncle. Thank you.”
When she tapped on the door of that chamber Shubal opened it instantly, as if he had been anxiously awaiting her.
“Miss Persis—please—the master is awake. And he’s asking for you.”
She should have been here earlier. Why had she let Lydia interfere with her sense of duty? Persis hurried to the side of the bed. It was strange to be looking down instead of up into those wide eyes. For even in his old age, Uncle Augustin was a tall man who, until his illness, had held himself confidently straight.