The Valentine Legacy

  “What kind of rock?” James asked.

  Jessie said, “The stones remaining from Blackbeard’s castle are limestone, quarried from the mainland near Charleston. I remember overhearing Mr. Gaskill talking to Mr. Burrus about it. As for the rocks in this marsh, I don’t know. Round? How odd.”

  “Not odd at all,” Marcus said, brushing off his sleeve, grinning like a pirate who’d lost his patch. He then jumped to his feet and spread his arms grandly. “Ballast stones, Jessie. They’re ballast stones.”

  “Just like those stones Blackbeard and some of his men sat on while sulfur burned down in the hold,” Badger said. “Good God.”

  “Valentine did give her great-grandson, Blackbeard, the solution for burying his plunder without danger of losing it in the shifting sands,” Sampson said. “Lordie, this is just splendid.”

  “And it was your idea, my dear,” Maggie told him fondly. She took his hand and kissed each knuckle. “You’re magnificent.” Anthony looked disgusted. Charles rubbed his knuckles over his new tooth.

  “Jessie,” James said, “just where is this marsh?”

  It was twilight. The three scouts stood by the marsh staring down at it. There were only three of them, for they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. The last thing any of them wanted was for the Ocracokers to demand to know what they were doing. The scouts, James, Jessie, and Badger, stood at the edge of the marsh, which lay nearly a half mile from the village on the inland water side of the island. It was brimming with filthy black water that made Jessie shudder just to look at it.

  “It looks evil,” she said.

  “It stinks, that’s for sure,” Badger said, nodding. He dropped to his haunches and stared at the motionless surface. Suddenly there was a ripple, then a cottonmouth poked its head up, and Badger fell back on his rear end, gasping.

  “However did Blackbeard get the two necklaces for Valentine if the water was this high?” Jessie asked. “Surely he didn’t stick his hands down there?”

  “No,” James said slowly as he took Badger’s hand and pulled him up. “He would have used something—a long pole, perhaps, with a scoop on the end of it. Something like that.”

  Badger said, “It seems that Mr. Sampson’s correct in his deductions. He thinks the treasure must be inside something metal, so the nasty marsh water wouldn’t get to it. He thinks this metal casket is tied securely with chain to the ballast rocks.”

  “Yes,” James said. “That’s what Jessie and I think, too. We need to come back at low tide. In the meantime we need to make a pole sturdy enough and long enough to get the job done. Once the pole touches the metal casket, it’s got to be strong enough to bring it up without breaking the pole.”

  “It’s a start,” Jessie said, hugging James to her side as they walked back into the Warfield house, which now didn’t look quite so decrepit. “It’s exciting.”

  “Nearly as exciting as you filled with my child,” he said. He looked at the scythed lawn, the front door that stood open, looking inviting, not threatening, and said, “I think your father just might like to come back here to visit. It’s a beautiful place, different from any place I’ve ever seen.”

  “Riding horses on the beach is fun, too,” she said. “ Perhaps now, with you, it would be more than fun.”

  “I would hope so. We must do it before you’re too fat to sit behind me with your arms around my waist. I don’t want you falling off the back of the horse.”

  She laughed, poked his arm, and they went into the house to the nearly overwhelming scent of Badger’s oysters, simmering in wine, rosemary, and onions. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” James said. “Oysters! They’re slimy ugly things. What man in his right mind would drop one in his mouth?”

  But they all did. If Jessie and Spears didn’t care for them, Marcus and James waxed eloquent on the way they slid down the throat. The Duchess threw an oyster at her husband, who peeled it off his chest, wiped it with a napkin, and handed it ceremoniously to James. Oysters, the majority of the party decided, weren’t at all a bad thing—as long, Spears announced, as Mr. Badger was there to prepare them.

  The next morning Jessie arose full of energy. She met Badger, who was cursing under his breath, coming from the kitchen.

  “Whatever is wrong?”

  “I broke my special wooden spoon. I’m going to Mr. Gaskill’s store to see if he has something I could use.”

  “I’ll do it. I know you want to build the pole with the other men.”

  Badger nodded, clearly distracted, and took himself to the small overgrown garden in back of the house where all the men were gathered, their hands filled with tools, their heads filled with ideas, each different from the others’. She heard Marcus shout, “Dammit, Spears, you’ve got lumps in your brain! The prongs won’t give us enough strength. The pole will break.”

  She called out, “Why don’t two of you go to the marsh, stick the pole in, and see how long it needs to be before you find the ballast stones? I guess you just might want to make two poles, to give you more leverage.”

  She heard ferocious muttering. She shook her head even as she was grinning, as unrepentant as a child who’d stolen a forbidden sweetmeat.

  “Men,” Maggie said fondly, shaking her head as she came up behind Jessie. “That was a reasonable suggestion but since none of their exalted highnesses had thought of it, well, there must be something wrong with it.”

  “They’ll go,” Jessie said. “Won’t they?”

  “It’s an even chance,” Maggie said. “Your streamers are a bit on the edge, Jessie. Hold still. You must remember to straighten yourself up after James fondles you. He’s exuberant, isn’t he? That’s nice.”

  Ten minutes later, Jessie picked up her parasol, for the morning sun would be fierce overhead soon enough, and headed for the village, but a mile away. She was humming, knowing that soon, one way or another, they’d know if old Blackbeard did indeed bury some treasure in that marsh. She hoped so, she surely did.

  She was singing one of the Duchess’s ditties about the troubles in his majesty’s navy, what with all the beans and scurvy the poor sailors had to endure. It was sung everywhere, Marcus had told her, and the Foreign Office hated it. They’d been forced to find lemons, and that cost too much money. He’d grinned then and said his wife was a rabble-rouser and wasn’t it fun.

  She was utterly surprised when Compton Fielding, the bookstore owner from Baltimore, suddenly stepped into her path.

  “Mr. Fielding! What a surprise! Whatever are you doing here in Ocracoke?”

  He smiled at her and offered her his arm. “I am enjoying a well-earned week of pleasure,” he said. “Shall I escort you to the village, Jessie? I was just on my way to see you and James. And here you are, right in front of me.”

  She took his arm, smiling up at him.

  “You’re very happy with James,” he said, as thoughtful as a man with two bills to pay and enough money for only one of them. “I’m surprised. The two of you were always fighting. It amused me. Actually,” he continued, looking up at a royal tern who was flying just overhead, “for a while I was convinced that you were one of those curious females celebrated by Sappho, the Greek poetess.”

  “Who was Sappho? She must not have written a diary, or else you would have given it to me. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of her.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. You’re a Colonial, you’re a female, you’re horse mad, and there’s no need for you to know that so many hundreds of years ago women celebrated their love for one another. She lived in the sixth century before Christ on an island named Lesbos. There were only women on the island, it is said. Fragments of her poetry remain today. It is passionate stuff, not poetry that a normal woman would pen. Stop looking so stupid, Jessie. We’re not speaking of just spiritual love, as a daughter could have for a mother, or a sister for another sister, but carnal love, two women caressing each other, kissing each other, their bodies straining against each other.”

  Jessi
e knew she’d turned pale. She knew Mr. Fielding was trying to shock her but she couldn’t think why. “I don’t understand you,” she said slowly. “Why are you saying these things?”

  “Because, my dear Jessie, I have you now, and I don’t intend to let you go until I’ve got my share of Blackbeard’s treasure. Not all of it, surely not. I’m certain I couldn’t manage all of it, but a goodly amount, enough for me to travel to Europe and live like royalty for the rest of my life.”

  She stopped then and stared up at him. She’d always liked Mr. Fielding, had spent hours in his bookstore, even more hours when she learned that James was there a lot of the time and she would have done anything to see him. And Mr. Fielding had always been kind to her, never talking down to her, offering her books to read—particularly diaries, yes, she remembered that clearly now. “You can’t kidnap me, Mr. Fielding. This is Ocracoke. There’s no place here to hide me. Besides, why? What is all this nonsense about Blackbeard’s treasure?” Even as she said Blackbeard’s name, she jerked free of his hold and turned on her heel. She picked up her skirts and ran back toward Warfield house.

  34

  JESSIE WAS IN fine physical condition, but her petticoats and skirts got tangled around her legs, making her trip and stumble. She cursed herself for letting Maggie talk her out of wearing her breeches. He caught her soon enough. He leaped at her from behind, throwing her forward onto her knees. She was breathing hard, the pain in her knees deep and raw. She was afraid now, very afraid, and it was her own fault. Why hadn’t she realized she was going off alone? Why hadn’t she thought? No one had realized it. Everyone was so excited about the treasure that no one had thought, not Badger, not she.

  “What do you want?”

  He jerked her to her feet and turned her to face him. He slapped her hard, first on her left cheek, then on her right. “You won’t try to escape me again, Jessie, or I’ll just kill you. I don’t really need you. All I have to do is send a note to James and tell him I’ve got you and that I want my share of the treasure. He won’t know until it’s all over that you’re well dead. Obey me, Jessie, or I’ll strangle you right here, right now. I’ve absolutely nothing to lose now, you see.”

  She nodded slowly, her mind racing frantically, trying to figure all this out, trying to understand, to . . .

  “Come with me. You’ll like my little refuge. I’ve been there for two days now. Thank God the winter storms haven’t set in yet. I found out all about the Outer Banks before I sailed here. I didn’t want to end up drowned when my ship ran aground on one of these forever-shifting shoals.”

  “Storms can hit at any time.”

  “Yes, but they won’t. I just feel it in my bones. At last my luck has changed.”

  She walked beside him. Soon they left the rutted path to the village, veering toward the ocean. He said matter-of-factly, “Yes, for the longest time I thought you were a lover of women. Many men have known passion for other men, but not all that many women that I’ve ever heard of. I watched you, and I was fairly certain, what with you always aping a man, wearing breeches, those ridiculous old hats, your hair ratty and in a braid. Yes, I thought, she’s a student of Sappho.

  “That’s the reason, Jessie, that Allen Belmonde wanted you dead.”

  Jessie, who had never imagined that two women would want to kiss each other as she did James, just stared at him, shaking her head. “Allen Belmonde? What are you saying? This doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

  He swatted away a big fly, saying, “He told me before I killed him—naturally I had to encourage him just a bit—that he’d tried to kill you because he was sure Alice was going to divorce him so she could live with you, be your lover. He wasn’t particularly repelled by the notion. What he was, my dear, was desperate. He couldn’t lose her money and he would if she left him. Her father, no fool, had protected her in that. Allen had to lower himself many times just to get enough money to pay his gambling debts. Thus, he tried to kill you. If you’ll remember, I pulled you away from that wagon. I saved your life. That was happenstance, and I am grateful I was there that day. I already knew I needed you, you see, and thus when I discovered it was Allen Belmonde who wanted you dead, I had to eliminate that threat. I needed you alive. I killed him. I saved you. You should be thanking me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.” She still felt utterly bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oddly enough, Allen was right. His wife would have divorced him, but not for you. It wasn’t you Alice loved. It was your sister. The two of them should suit each other quite nicely when old Bramen croaks.”

  “Nelda? She’s a student of this Sappho woman?”

  “Oh yes, indeed she is. I imagine she and Alice will move to New York, away from the scandal their union would cause here in Baltimore. But that’s not really important. Naturally Bramen will leave Nelda well provided for in his will. They will do well together. I just wanted you to know that you owe me, Jessie. You owe me part of that treasure because I protected you, because I saved you.”

  “You wanted me alive, but why? How could you possibly know about Blackbeard? I didn’t realize I had forgotten all about Old Tom and his diaries until just months ago.”

  “Turn here, my dear. Yes, that’s right, into this oak thicket. It’s dense and protected in here, the sun doesn’t beat through the thick leaves. Ah, but these trees are ugly, aren’t they? So twisted and bent and gnarly, like old women shuffling down a road.”

  “I’ve always thought of them as old men.”

  “Turn in here, Jessie.”

  She did as he said, still not understanding, but knowing he was enjoying telling her all about what he’d done. He was proud. She sensed the excitement in him, scarcely leashed. She’d walked away from the house, whistling, all happy, enthusiastic, and now look at her. In the hands of a murderer. What to do?

  “Sit down, Jessie. Do you like my little refuge? See how I’ve woven branches together so they form a roof of sorts? It hasn’t rained yet, so I can’t be certain it will protect us. But it’s comfortable. The nights aren’t too cold. Yes, sit down, and I will tell you the rest of it. There’s plenty of time. I won’t send a message to James until later today. I want him to know you’re gone, to be worried, finally, to be frantic.”

  He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. She jerked away, her eyes going wide.

  “No, I won’t rape you. Actually, to see you now, after your transformation, makes me wonder how I could have been so blind. My mother always told me that I was possessed of great discernment. But with you, I was blind. And you’ve a child in your belly, James’s child. Who would have thought the two of you would have married? Who would have thought James would even want to bed you? Well, that’s that and not really important now.

  “You probably remember Red Eye Crimson.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know about Red Eye? Oh God, we all thought he was the one to protect me from. I remember him so well now, that night when he tried to kidnap me from Papa’s house, how my pug saved me, how my papa told me he would be in jail until he was ninety years old.”

  “Oliver was wrong. Red Eye Crimson came blundering into my shop one fine day last December. He wanted diaries, he said, Blackbeard’s diaries. Did I have any?

  “Of course I didn’t have any. I’d never heard about that evil man even being able to write, much less keep diaries. But I was fascinated to know why this pathetic creature wanted to know about Blackbeard. I got him drunk. He told me finally how he and Tom Teach—you call him Mr. Tom—were partners, how he was supposed to have met Tom here on Ocracoke and together they would put the diaries together and then they’d have the treasure. He had Blackbeard’s final diary, but it did him no good without the others. He was convinced that Blackbeard was a cagey villain and that he’d scattered clues throughout his diaries. Thus he didn’t intend to kill Tom until he had his hands on the treasure. He was nearly in tears. He said he finally arrived only to find that you’d murdered Tom—he’d watche
d you sneak away from the shack on the beach. Evidently he didn’t see you bury the diaries. You did bury them, didn’t you, Jessie?”

  “Yes. We found them two days ago.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve been watching and waiting for my chance. You were very lucky that the diaries had been pushed up into that tree, very lucky indeed. But back to Red Eye. He followed you home, then tried to take you that night. You escaped him and then you forgot everything in that illness that followed. A child has amazing powers for protecting itself. It was all so horrifying for you that you simply forgot it. As for poor Red Eye, he did indeed go to jail. He escaped and came back to Baltimore, to get you. I decided to make him my partner. I hid him in my house on Powell Street. I sent my dear mother off to visit her sister in Philadelphia. All went well until Allen Belmonde wanted you dead. I, of course, had realized that you had no memory of Old Tom or Blackbeard or the diaries. I simply told Red Eye that we’d have to wait. I told him it would do him no good to kidnap you because you didn’t remember anything. I told him I would try to stimulate your memory. That’s why I gave you all those diaries to read, Jessie, all from that period of time. You recall now how I also tried to question you closely, even touching on your childhood here in Ocracoke.”

  It was all so clear now, Mr. Fielding giving her various diaries during the couple of months before she fled to England, most of them at least two hundred years old, reading to her, encouraging her. He’d wanted her to remember. She said, “Yes, you always wanted me to look at your diaries. I never suspected. Why would I? I sometimes had horrible nightmares about that long-ago night, but they were vague and usually gone in the morning. I remembered everything when I was in England. I hit my head, and when I woke up I remembered.”

  “I know. That beautiful Maggie Sampson told me all about it. It was her mission to help me remember any more details about the man who nearly ran you down in that wagon. A charming creature, your Maggie. It was difficult to act calm around you and James. I was so excited. I knew things would begin to happen now. I’d already killed Red Eye—I found I just couldn’t control him, the blundering fool insisted that it was a mistake, that he shouldn’t have listened to me, that he should have kidnapped you and he would have beaten you into remembering. So yet again, I saved you, Jessie. Yes, I killed him, saw no reason not to since I’d read Blackbeard’s final diary. Blackbeard wrote that the answers were in his great-grandma’s diary. He wrote, if I recall correctly, ‘Deep in a pit, my treasure lies hidden, safe for all time.’ You can’t imagine how long I thought about that, but I had no answer. I needed Blackbeard’s great-grandma’s diary, not Blackbeard’s other two diaries. Old Tom must have been a fool. Here you figured it out without Blackbeard’s lame little clue, didn’t you?”