The Opal-Eyed Fan

  She would take it out the first chance she got and throw it straight into the canal, making very sure that no one, especially Askra, saw her do it. That was the answer and, having made that decision, Persis’ mind was a little more easy.

  She found when Molly did arrive with the tray that she was not very hungry after all. But there were some slices of fresh melon, thinly slivered and made tasty by a sharp new vinegary sauce which pleased her better than the conventional toast and tea. Then Molly drew the shutters a little to keep out the sun and Persis settled back, sure that she could not sleep, only to do so.

  It was perhaps the afternoon heat which aroused her, for she turned uncomfortably in bed, realizing that her night rail was damp on her body and her hair plastered dankly to her forehead. If there was any sea wind now—and certainly the gale had left them long since—the shutters kept that out along with the punishing sun.

  There was no going back to sleep again. Persis sat up in the huge bed and rubbed her forehead, brushing away her hair. She licked her lips experimentally and tasted the salt of her own perspiration. The memory of Mrs. Pryor’s explanation of the dark and rising water under the kitchen, that it was at times used as a bathhouse, somehow crept into her mind. But a second memory of the turtles quickly banished it. She had made do with a sponge bath before, she could certainly do so again.

  As she slipped over the edge of the wide bed she looked toward that drawer in the chest. Was it or was it not open a fraction? She did not in the least want to go and make sure. But there was still, she discovered, a half-filled jug of water on the commode and that she used with vigor, sprinkling her body thereafter with the lavender water which might not be cooling the least but which made her feel fresher.

  Molly had laid out clean clothing. There must be a great deal of washing necessary on Lost Lady. Certainly no lady in this heat could use the same body linen a second day. And now she was hungrier than she had been earlier. Thoughts of ham and biscuits, of some of the baked fish and fruit Mam Rose seemed to have a fine hand at serving filled her mind.

  Her dress was her own—a cream muslin with small, meticulously printed moss roses scattered across it. And the style of it was far more staid than the lace and ruffles which Lydia affected and which did become her golden prettiness.

  Lydia—she had not come but once to see her brother and then, viewing him flushed with fever, deliriously calling to his men, she had beat such a hasty retreat that she might never have entered the door of his chamber at all. She had looked both sick and scared.

  There were people like that, Persis thought, as she brushed her hair carefully. They could not face up to any illness or hurt. But though she knew they existed, Persis had never been able to understand them. What had Lydia been doing all these days? Certainly not running the house, for she had early given evidence that she left that strictly to Mrs. Pryor.

  The door behind her opened softly and slowly. Persis seeing that movement in the mirror felt a small lurch of fear. She had not forgotten the strange fan, no matter how hard she had tried to put that firmly out of her mind until the time came to deal with it.

  “Molly!” Her recognition was in small part real relief.

  “Miss Persis, you should have called me.”

  “Why? I’m past the age when I have to be buttoned and tab-tied into my clothes—well past. Do you realize, Molly, that in a couple more years or so I’ll be what you New Englanders term a ‘thorn-back’—a real old maid.” She laughed at the outraged expression on Molly’s face. “Come, admit it now. Here I am near past twenty and no men ever thought to offer for me. Nor has anyone had the good taste to seek out my company beyond the merely civil.”

  “And why?” Molly exploded angrily. “You never saw nobody but them who was old enough to be your grandpa! It was a crying shame that Master Rooke was so set on his own affairs that he never noticed you was growing up and needed company like all young maids!”

  Persis was a little surprised at Molly’s heat. The maid had always appeared to accept Uncle Augustin’s way of life as a proper one and Persis’ place in it as suitable for the lady she labored to make of her.

  “Yes, I don’t think Judge Sims would ever have made me an offer, though he was polite enough. And Mr. Hugues only looked at me as if I were a chess piece.” The girl laughed. “Uncle Augustin had his own ways, Molly, and after all he gave me a good home, schooling, and a lot more to be thankful about. He was so old I suppose I was always just a child as far as he was concerned, and he can’t be blamed for that.”

  She leaned forward a little to look at herself in the too-ornate mirror. With her hair all down about her shoulders she did look younger of course. But since she had left school and taken on such responsibility as Uncle Augustin seemed to require of a female, she had somehow never thought of herself as a girl again. Never had she had Lydia’s quick changes of mood, her outspoken criticism of her elders, and her self-centeredness.

  And certainly she had none of Lydia’s prettiness. She did not quite understand now why she picked her hostess as a measure to judge her own self-lacks, save for the past two years her only contacts with former schoolmates had been a couple of decorous tea drinkings a month and the attendance at three of their weddings. Though Uncle Augustin had never forbidden her to invite friends to his house, she had somehow innately known that to do so would be taking a liberty on her part which she had not been prepared to do.

  Did she look old? Compared to Lydia, she probably did. No wonder Mrs. Pryor had considered her staid and sober enough to act as a relief nurse for the Captain. Perhaps the housekeeper credited her with even more years than she could count.

  “Look at yourself, Miss Persis.” Molly had already taken brush and comb away from her mistress and was starting to pin and braid, reducing her too-fine and flyaway hair to decent order. “There’s girls much less favored as has been wearing a wedding band for some years. You—” she stepped back a little to survey Persis, “you make too little of yourself, Miss Persis.”

  “You’re very comforting, Molly, to an old maid—”

  Molly’s face flushed. “Now don’t you never say that ’bout yourself, Miss Persis. We think ourselves into things. I’ve seen that happen a mite of times. I’ve watched you, Miss Persis,” she continued. “You owed a duty to the master right enough—him taking you in and all. But you gave him back all that you could. And it wasn’t fair that you never had a chance to be yourself.”

  Then Persis said a thing which surprised her as much as it must have Molly.

  “Myself? I don’t know what self I really am, Molly.”

  “Then,” said the maid firmly, anchoring the last loop of braid firmly into place with a bow of rose velvet ribbon at its base, which she pinned on with a defiant air as if she expected Persis to protest such frivolity, “it’s time you’re findin’ out! An’ don’t talk to me about ‘thorn-back’ and old maids—I won’t hear it. There you are—as elegant a young lady as ever came out of New York. Miss Lydia may have all the curls and the laces, but you’ve got something else. And—” she reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper which had been overfolded twice and then stuck together with a blob of red wax. “I was asked to give you this here—by a young gentleman, no less. You remember who you are and make the most of it, Miss Persis.”

  She went to lay away comb and brush and tidy up the room. Persis fingered the note in sheer surprise, before she pried loose the wax with a fingernail and read the few lines of bold script black and heavy across the page.

  Miss Rooke:

  I hesitate to ask such a favor of you but the situation is such that I cannot go openly to the house and I have information of great value for you. Upon my last meeting with Captain Leverett he forbid my visiting his house, or indeed his island. But this knowledge is of such importance that I have taken the risk of both offending your sense of propriety and encroaching upon forbidden waters to bring it.

  You have, Miss Lydia informed me, inherited
certain properties in the Bahamas. I have a recent report which may well affect your claim in this direction. If you will allow me to explain it to you, come to the point of the Key, beyond the ruined mound, as near to sunset as you can manage and I shall meet you there.

  Ralph Grillon

  Persis read it through twice. Wisdom, she thought, suggested most firmly that she ignore such a missive. On the other hand Ralph Grillon was from the Bahamas; he might even have known of the Rooke family there. If he did have such information as he said, it could influence her own future plans one way or the other. She did not in the least care for such a semisecret meeting as he suggested, but she was well aware now that there had been a fierce altercation between Captain Leverett and the Bahamian on the day Uncle Augustin had died. At the time she had only half-heard, and hardly attended to the story, but it seemed that the two captains had met outside the house and Crewe Leverett had warned off Ralph Grillon in a no uncertain way—saying if he caught him again on Lost Lady he would take steps which would effectively insure that the Stormy Luck would never harbor here again.

  Since Persis had guessed that Ralph Grillon was more one to take such a prohibition as dare, she was not surprised he had returned. But she did not want to be drawn into any difficulty which might lie between her host and the captain from the Bahamas. On the other hand she must learn to stand on her own two feet.

  Persis knew how easy it was to drift into dependency on someone, as she had on Uncle Augustin. Even now she worried when she thought of what might lie ahead. And if Ralph Grillon—Why, he might even know of a lawyer in the Bahamas who could act for her, since the wreckers dealt much with courts and legal matters. Yes, she would see him.

  The note she folded and put away in her small purse. Then she wondered if she should not consult with Lydia. To go with the other girl might be well. Only she had some of Uncle Augustin’s need for family privacy. The story of her Bahamian inheritance was not altogether such a savory one. Even in discussing the broad outline of her inheritance with Captain Leverett she had not mentioned what lay behind the very generous gesture of the widowed Madam Rooke. Molly now, and perhaps Shubal—but they were family. No, she would not speak to Lydia.

  Once more she found that the veranda was the center for dining and lounging. Lydia sat in a cane chair, yawning over a book which she declared was too tedious for words after she made a perfunctory inquiry concerning Crewe. Sukie brought a tray of food and Persis ate with a good appetite. As she had slept late, the hour Grillon had appointed could not be too far off. Now she must devise a way for reaching that part of the island he had indicated.

  She thought she knew her way, for the burial ground which lay on the highest point of the Key looked down toward the point. And, though she hated to use family sorrow as an excuse, she announced that she would like to take some fresh flowers for Uncle Augustin’s grave. Lydia yawned, advised her to wait until it was cooler, and then went reluctantly to interview Mam Rose, since apparently she had been forced by Mrs. Pryor’s stay in the sick room to assume some small duties in the house.

  Persis arose and took the path which led first over the shell-strewn mound and then down into the low, strange, vegetation. She culled as she went two handsful of brilliant red flowers, the first she could sight, thinking at the time that such a tribute might amuse Uncle Augustin but would hardly be his choice. Their colors were too bright, their appearance of vitality too strong.

  Leaving them by the wooden cross on her uncle’s grave Persis deliberately turned in the other direction along a path even more nearly overgrown. Here she had to hold her skirts firmly close to her lest they catch again and again on the spiky arms of low bushes, as she headed for the rendezvous Ralph Grillon had appointed.

  8

  “G reetings, Miss Rooke.”

  Persis started; Ralph Grillon had appeared so suddenly he might have risen out of the ground. She had rounded a large rock and was looking across the shell-strewn sand to the now-tamed wash of the waves, still holding her full skirts about her. Whether he had meant to startle her she did not know, but she eyed him with very little welcome.

  “I had your note,” she returned abruptly, attempting to summon to her own voice some of the brusqueness Crewe Leverett used. Persis found Ralph’s good looks, his air of recklessness, both drew and repelled her. Perhaps more the latter because she associated trust always with Uncle Augustin’s air of quiet reserve.

  “Come.” He held out his hand. “If we sit here we cannot be overlooked from the house.” He pointed to a log of drift half-buried in the sand, perhaps so deeply anchored that not even a storm, unless one strong enough to wash away the whole of the island, could shift it.

  Persis folded her hands before her. “You said you had a message of value for me.” She refused to soften her voice. “I shall be missed since I have been helping Mrs. Pryor care for Captain Leverett.”

  He smiled, in no way abashed by her refusal to be ushered to the seat he had chosen.

  “Yes, Leverett met bad luck at last, didn’t he?” Grillon sounded cheerful about that. “Or maybe it was good luck—a soft bed ashore and near all the females in the Key fussing over him. But it will be some time before he takes out the Nonpareil.”

  “I did not come here to discuss Captain Leverett,” Persis reminded him sharply. For all his charm, and she did not deny that he had it, she decided she did not in the least envy Lydia her beau.

  “No, you came here for the news I promised you, but I can’t say that is good, Miss Rooke. By all accounts, your uncle—since you seem to want to speak frankly—was hard set financially when he started down here. Well, that will on which he pinned so much hope may not be worth the paper and wax of its making.”

  “What do you know about my uncle’s affairs?” Persis withdrew a step or so, again surprised. She had not even discussed the full of the tangle with Crewe Leverett in their one meeting before Uncle Augustin’s burial.

  “You’d be surprised how quickly rumor spreads hereabouts when there is something new to talk about,” he countered. “And Mr. Rooke had some interesting conversations with Captain Pettigrew before the Arrow came to its dismal end. He asked a lot about the islands, enough to make the Captain interested. And since Rooke is not a common name, it is well remembered in the Bahamas. Old Madam’s will was the talk of the town when it was proven. Only she didn’t have the right to be so free with Rooke property, you see. James Rooke had a child—legal born—all proper. And that child has a good claim, a better claim on old Madam’s leavings than Augustin Rooke—or you.” Ralph was watching her, still smiling, and she could not read any maliciousness into that smile. Also, that he was speaking the truth she did not doubt, or at least what he believed to be the truth.

  “But there are documents proving that James Rooke died—at sea,” Persis protested.

  “Which is no reason to say that he did not sire any offspring before he took off on that privateer, is it? Even Madam had her troubles with the court clearing her title to what there was in spite of proof of James’ death. I am afraid James was not a very good boy.” Ralph Grillon leaned his back against the rock which screened them from view. He had thrust his thumbs into the front of his belt and now his fingers beat a soft tattoo on the salt-stained leather of that.

  “No, James was never the pattern of a good and dutiful son. After old Rooke finally paid up a last round of debts and said his son could well live at the expense of the devil, since he had already chosen to ape his satanic majesty, they did not keep in touch.

  “Though I did hear that the old man had second thoughts before he died, and tried to find James—even left a letter for Madam which kept her hunting, too. Until your uncle obligingly sent her the proof that James was safely dead. But James had left a child, all right–”

  “What proof of that have you?” Persis demanded.

  “Oh, there’ll be proof when the proper time comes. If you go on to the islands, Miss Persis Rooke, you’ll find more trouble than any fema
le can rightly face. But there’s a way out—a very good way. You help me—I’ll help you.”

  “In what way?”

  “I know the lawyer who is ready to slap down old Madam’s will if you try to prove it. But he and his client are not unreasonable. Seeing as how you are, in a manner of speaking, an innocent party in all this and a lone female. They’ll make a settlement which will give you enough to get back north again. Up there you can manage—”

  Persis studied him. His confidence was complete. She must accept that he knew exactly what he was talking about. And there were perhaps remnants of Uncle Augustin’s estate left in New York. They would—she, Shubal, and Molly (because they were family and she must consider their future as well as her own)—have to live very frugally. The house could be sold; it was a good one in a district considered the height of respectability. And there might be other small sums she could count on. And, she could teach. Though she did not look forward to that. But Miss Pickett would give her a letter of recommendation.

  Only, before she gave in, she must know more and not just accept Ralph Grillon’s word. In her mind Persis tried to marshal all her confidence in herself, her belief in Uncle Augustin. He was not, in spite of his severe reverses, a man to travel to this wild place in spite of his illness, unprepared. He must have made inquiries of his own. Did Ralph Grillon imagine that she would meekly accept his word and take the first possible ship back to New York?

  “I must take my uncle’s papers to a lawyer in Key West,” she said slowly. “Then I can make up my mind on his advice. But you spoke of a bargain—if you help me, how do I help you?”

  Captain Grillon lost none of his good humor. “Fair enough—but remember these lawyers know all the tricks, and when it comes to arranging an inheritance some of it sticks tightly to their own fingers when they handle it for you. So no matter what one advises, the settlement of which I speak would be more to your advantage—yours without the gamble of a court case and the expense of a greedy lawyer.