The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (16 page)

Addie paused as if to further calm herself, and then pulled a paper from her pocket. “'Tis this I took from the drawer,” she said quietly. The page was covered in script, the same three words over and over:

Miss Prudence Simmons Miss Prudence Simmons

Miss Prudence Simmons Miss Prudence Simmons

I stared at the page, not grasping its meaning.

“But what—”

Addie interrupted. “'Tis what he's spendin' his days doin',” she said, her eyes blazing. “Sittin' there in the captain's chair with yer auntie's letter before him—this I know 'cause I've managed to get in there with the excuse of needin' t' clean this, or t' polish that, and I've stolen a look over his shoulder, I have. He's practicin,' I tell ye—he's practicin' at copyin' yer auntie's hand!”

I gasped as the realization hit me.

“But why?” I began. “What for?”

Addie took my hand in hers and stared at me, hard.

“I can't be sure, lass,” she whispered. “But that's what I mean to be findin' out!”

S
unday afternoon was upon us quickly, and it seemed we had barely finished with the afternoon meal when the clip-clop of Mr. Mathers's mare could be heard on the drive outside. I patted my mouth with my napkin, backed away from the table, and prepared to take my leave.

Even though I was prepared—Addie and I had my few necessary belongings packed—my departure this time was more uncomfortable than the last. There was something disturbing in Uncle Victor's manner—nothing as harsh as the time he'd struck me, or, for that matter, his words not as biting and
sharp as they had been before I left with Marni. No. Harsh words or even the back of his hand would have meant business as usual. But something had changed.

All weekend there had been a distractedness about him, as though his primary goal was not to vex me and remind me of our family faults—mine and Father's, mostly. Rather, he spent most of his time holed away in Father's study.

And neither did Aunt Margaret seem herself. Each and every time I was in her company, her eyes would dart nervously from my gaze and an anxious flush would creep up her neck and across her cheeks. As if to distract us from this, she spoke incessantly in a flustered, rambling way about nothing at all—that is, until Uncle Victor silenced her with some harsh demand or chore that would occupy her elsewhere.

And finally there was the visit from a man Addie and I had never seen before. He was a person of some means—this was obvious from the look of his well-tailored clothing, the large gold pocket watch that dangled by his side, and his expertly trimmed and waxed mustache, which curled above his upper lip like the wings of an extravagantly plumed black bird. It was clear to me that the man disliked my uncle but was working hard at concealing this.
His words and gestures spoke of congeniality, but his smile was snakelike, and his eyes—small black eyes—were unrelenting and cold. I watched the man pull back slightly as my uncle laid a hand on his shoulder and led him into the library. Uncle Victor was carrying a ledger of some kind; the other man, a well-oiled leather satchel.

As he shook hands and readily accepted a brandy and a cigar, it seemed to me that the man
wanted something—
and he was willing to flatter and patronize my uncle in order to get it.

All of this was lost on my uncle Victor, who seemed to revel in the man's slippery overtures, returning each with another ingratiating gesture of his own. Had my uncle been a decent person, I might have felt sorry at the deception taking place, but Uncle Victor being who he was, I felt only disgust.

All of this flashed through my mind again as I gathered my things to leave. There was a rap on the door, and in a moment Addie led a man, an older gentleman, into the front hallway.

“Marcus Mathers,” he announced. “Miss Mar—” He made a big show of clearing his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “As I was saying, Miss
Maude
sent me for the young lady.”

I was deeply disappointed that Marni herself
had not returned for me. My uncle barely raised an eyebrow, simply nodded toward my things. “Well, let's get the wagon loaded,” he said, although he made no move to help the man.

Mr. Mathers lugged my traveling bag out the door, and I was pleased to see that the horse and carriage were familiar.

Addie and I tagged along behind. Uncle Victor followed us out, moving quickly, rushing us along, edging in beside Mr. Mathers and giving my bag an impatient shove. It was clear that he was eager to get back inside to his brandy and cigar.

“Mr. Mathers,” my uncle said, “as to my niece's subsequent visit … next weekend will be most difficult for us—I have quite a lot of important business to attend to. We'll need to make it two weeks, or, better yet, three. That will bring us to the very end of the summer, a fitting time for a visit before the fall term.”

I watched Addie beside him, her mouth narrowing into a thin line, the color rushing to her cheeks. She opened and shut her mouth several times as if to protest, but no words came.

Mr. Mathers shrugged, his long, jowly face devoid of any expression. “I can't see Miss M—Maude finding a problem in that, can you, Miss Lucy?”

I shook my head and squeezed Addie's hand. Maybe it was better that I was away until the problem, whatever it was, blew over. For there was, undeniably, a feeling in the air of some change that was being kept from us, that promised to bring no good. Addie hustled me toward the carriage. “I'll be watchin' 'im like a hawk, I will,” she whispered in my ear. “Don't ye be worryin'!”

Uncle Victor turned to go, but then hesitated, perhaps thinking that propriety required some kind of a farewell.

“Ah yes, dear,” he said, gazing just to the side of me in order to avoid my eyes, “you will be missed, of course.” To this I said nothing at all, and Mr. Mathers's eyes swept questioningly from Uncle Victor to me and back again.

I saw my uncle tense under his gaze. He was working quite hard at controlling his anger at me for not responding in kind to his deceptive overture. He swallowed and curled his mouth into a smile that barely masked the look of distaste beneath it.

“Until then,” he said, and to my great discomfort he embraced me—if you call a rigid, cold sort of hug an embrace. I stood stiff as one of the stately pines surrounding the house and did my best to tolerate this deceitful show, put on for Mr. Mathers's benefit.

Mr. Mathers opened the carriage door and helped
me in. I was delighted to see Georgie there, looking so tiny alone in the back of the buggy. He sat with his arms folded, clutching himself, kicking his skinny legs against the bottom of the seat. He smiled shyly at me, and shimmied over to give me more room. I heard the soft clicking sound that Mr. Mathers made to get the mare moving, this and a gentle snap of the reins. We lurched forward, and I peered out the window at Addie, and at my beloved home.

Again I was overcome with a feeling of great loss. I sniffled for a bit, wiping my bleary eyes and runny nose with my hankie. Suddenly there was nothing I wanted more than for Mother's arms to hold me, for Father's hands on my shoulder. An awkward period of silence followed.

It was Georgie, finally, who spoke.

“I wanted to see your big grand house,” he said seriously. “I think that's why Marni let me come along.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, my voice still thick and coated with tears.

“What's the matter?” he said anxiously. “You don't want to come back with us?”

I shook my head. “That isn't it.” Even to me it sounded unconvincing. Georgie looked disappointed, a shadow falling across his small, fine features.

“Well,” he said, frowning, “your house wasn't
that
grand.”

I shrugged, understanding that he was punishing me for my lack of enthusiasm.

Georgie gnawed at the edge of his tiny half-moon of a thumbnail. “And, with such a grand house,” he mumbled, “I don't see why Marni needs to help you anyway.”

I placed my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Georgie?”

He continued to kick the seat, peering straight ahead as though he hadn't heard me. “My house may look grand, but it's not the house itself, you see. It was being there, so happy, with my mother and father, and Addie. All of that was lost when the accident happened. So, you see, it's good for me to be with you. You've all been kind to me, and you've helped me spend my days being productive rather than sulking about pitying myself.”

I overlooked Georgie's incessant kicking as best I could and went on.

“And I'm sure you can understand how having a grand house hardly makes up for losing a mother or a father.” The tapping stopped, and Georgie looked up at me, his bottom lip stuck out, transforming his face into a dark-haired version of his sister Annie's. He nodded and the tension lifted. We rode
along like that, in silence, for some time before the carriage jerked to a stop.

“Whoa, Gert,” said Mr. Mathers to his mare. “Easy now.”

I leaned forward and glanced out the window to determine what was causing the delay.

“What in God's name could be so important that you practically throw yourself in front of my wagon?” asked Mr. Mathers.

From the angle of the window, it was impossible to see whom he was addressing. I craned my neck and peered out. All I could see was a pair of old boots and some denim trousers, obviously belonging to a rather large man. Georgie and I vied for position at the window, pointlessly, as the man was standing outside of our view.

“I saw you talking to her!” bellowed the man. “I want you to tell me where she lives!”

I watched Georgie's face go white, and I grabbed hold of him as he shrank from the window and melted into the space beside me. It was clear that he recognized his father's voice, and his reaction to it told me more about their relationship than Walter had disclosed.

“Down here, Georgie,” I whispered. I lifted my skirts by straightening my legs at the knees and shoved Georgie into the space underneath. I
lowered my legs, allowing my skirts to drape over him. I nudged him this way and that until he was mostly covered, and then dragged my traveling bag closer, hopefully concealing any sign of him whatever. I sat still, every muscle in my body tensed, waiting to see what might happen next.

“I don't know who you're talking about,” said Mr. Mathers evenly. “Now step aside, we have a journey ahead of us.”

“The sea hag!” shouted the Brute. “I saw her at your place! That witch has my youngsters, do you understand me? And I mean to get them back!”

Mr. Mathers made that clicking noise again, and the carriage moved a bit before lurching to a stop.

“Get your hands off of that harness,” Mr. Mathers said firmly. “I don't want to have to run you off the road, but if you persist, I shall have no choice.”

“That woman stole my children,” the Brute bellowed, “and you know where they are!”

I felt Georgie grab hold of my ankle, his fingers pressing painfully into my skin.

“You'll be safe, Georgie,” I whispered, but my heart raced wildly.

“You're talking nonsense,” said Mr. Mathers. “You have no business here with me. Now let us pass!”

“You're lying!” screamed the Brute. I heard Georgie gasp, could feel him cowering beneath my legs.

“I won't let him take you,” I said, meaning it with all my heart, terrified that I might not be able to follow through on my promise.

“Be off with you!” said Mr. Mathers. I heard the snap of the reins and felt the carriage move forward.

“Who have you got in that fancy carriage, anyway? Is it her—the sea nymph?”

I watched out the window and, to my horror, saw the Brute lunge toward the carriage door, felt the impact of his large hands against it. The door swung crazily open as Mr. Mathers drove old Gert forward. I thought of reaching for the door and pulling it shut, but feared that any motion on my part might reveal the little stowaway. Instead I clung to the edge of the seat and concentrated on keeping my legs rigid, thus preventing Georgie from tumbling over and out the door.

The Brute ran alongside us, his wild eyes bulging, his chest heaving. He grasped the edge of the doorframe and leaped toward us, managing to get a foothold along the bottom edge of the rig. I hammered at his grimy fingers and dug my fingernails into his flesh. He yelled and cursed
like a banshee but somehow held on. The carriage pitched to the right and to the left, an attempt by Mr. Mathers, I'm sure, to disengage the Brute. Holding my breath, I pried at his thick fingers, my heart threatening to explode. “She isn't here!” I screamed, and realizing my mistake, added, “Whoever it is you're looking for.”

There was a terrible moment when I thought for sure that Georgie and I would be tossed out onto the road, the instant that Mr. Mathers nearly took us into a ditch. The carriage tipped dangerously to the left, sending me and Georgie, still hanging on to my skirts for dear life, sliding across the seat and toward the open door. The Brute clung on, but the crazy tilt of the carriage caused him to lose his footing. He was flung backward and landed sprawled out across the grass. We went crashing on down the road, the carriage door flapping and banging against the side of the buggy like a window shutter in a hurricane. Finally, when the Brute was far out of sight, Mr. Mathers slowed to a halt and jumped from the buggy seat.