The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (19 page)

The Brute lay there gaping at Marni climbing up to the buggy seat. Walter, incredulous, stared down at his father once more.

“Walter, come,” Marni yelled. “Don't look back!”

He climbed up onto the seat and took the reins. “Ya!” he yelled. There was a snap of leather against the mare's hindquarter. With a jerk we were off, barreling down the road, the storm raging around us. The flute still vibrated in my pocket, like panting after great exertion.

I leaned over and peered through the window. The mist had dissipated, and the Brute was struggling to his feet again, stumbling along behind the carriage, a fist raised in the air.

He would never give up. Never. I only hoped that the rain might wash away the wheel tracks or that he'd drop from exhaustion before he reached the house. But something told me that wouldn't happen. Two or three turns in the road were all
that separated us from the house.

We pressed on through the storm, hoping against hope that we'd get there in time to somehow stop the series of events that seemed to be hurtling from our grasp, out of control.

A
n ungodly sound rolled in off the water—a kind of hellish howl unlike anything I'd heard before.

It was the sound of the wind—at least that's the only explanation that made any sense whatever. It began as we rounded the final bend toward the house, first as a low rumble, then escalating into a thunderous roar much like the sound of a locomotive. Trees bent back in the face of it, at a most unnatural angle, as if cringing in alarm, or retreating in panic. The wind drove the rain in sharp, slanting sheets and whipped the sea into
savage peaks of raging white foam.

By the time Walter slowed the mare to a nervous halt, the sound had risen to a hollow, high-pitched shriek, as though the clouds had burst and the sky itself was screaming. The wind buffeted the carriage, which shook and shuddered against its fury.

“Now, loves, hang on to one another tightly,” Addie shouted, “arm in arm! Otherwise I fear we might be swept clear away! I've never heard such a wind—it's like the wrath of God, it is!”

Mr. Mathers shook his head. “I shan't be going in,” he hollered. “Poor old Gert is terrified. It's best I get her settled.”

“Take her round back,” I yelled, “to the garden shed. Until the storm passes!”

The carriage door flew open and was nearly ripped off its hinges. Walter grabbed Addie's arm, and we tumbled out. Curiously, the moon was still visible, casting an eerie light on the flying debris swept up by the wind—garden stakes, twigs and branches, the seat cushions from Mother's wicker settee—all flipping and flying like ghosts in a moonlight dance, gyrating and hurtling to the tune of the wind.

We proceeded together, Marni in the lead; Annie and Georgie in the center, carrying Mr.
Pugsley; Addie, Walter, and I encircling them with a protective chain of hands and arms and elbows. As we moved toward the porch, the wind blew in such a way as to create a sort of safe tunnel for us—as though we were cloaked by the eye of the storm.

We huddled together on the porch. The overhanging roof provided little protection from the rain whipping in almost horizontally. I wriggled from the clutches of our little band, grasped the door latch, and pushed. The door didn't budge, so the six of us pummeled and pounded, demanding to be let inside. My aunt Margaret's face peered through one of the small wavy-glassed windows set along either side of the entrance door. One moment her distorted, fleshy face filled the pane, and next, the dark, swarthy face of my uncle. Our eyes met before his face disappeared. The door remained locked up tight.

I felt a tugging at my hand and looked down to see Annie gesturing frantically toward the path, eyes wide, mouth agape. Barely visible through the driving rain was the Brute, stumbling and crawling, fighting and clawing his way up the path.

“Hurry!” screamed Georgie. “Bang on the door again. We have to get in!”

We pounded and shouted, to no avail. My uncle obviously did not intend to allow us to interrupt
his business with the judge. Once the papers were signed, it would be too late. My fate would be sealed.

“I say we break down the door,” Walter shouted.

There seemed no other choice. We lifted the long wooden bench that sat opposite the porch rail. Walter held up the front; Addie, the rear; Marni, Georgie, and I, the middle. Annie stood clear.

“One, two, three,
heave
,” Walter yelled.

We forged ahead, slamming the end of the bench against the door. It shuddered, but held tight. The Brute was closer now, crawling up the path on hands and knees. Annie whimpered, nervously scanning the distance between her father and the door.

“Annie!” shouted Walter. “Don't pay him any mind. We'll be inside in a moment.

“One, two, three,
heave
!”

This time the crash of wood against wood caused a small splinter in the lower door panel.

“One, two, three,
heave
!”

The lower portion gave way, a ragged rupture out of which spilled light. “One, two, three,
heave
!

“One, two, three,
heave
!

“Heave!”

The bottom of the door shattered. The top panels splintered and slipped haphazardly to the side.

“Come on,” Walter commanded. “Careful!”

We dropped the bench and crawled through the gaping hole, avoiding the savage wooden teeth that threatened to bite us.

Aunt Margaret stood on the other side, red-faced, breathing heavily, her hands flying about her jowly face.

“Good Lord, Victor,” she shrieked, “come quickly!” She turned toward us, her expression one of fear mixed with anger. “There was no need to break the door down, for heaven's sake!”

She dashed past us and positioned herself in front of the door to the study.

“Victor!”
This time it was nothing short of a scream. “They've gone and broken down the door!”

Marni stepped forward and took my aunt by the arm.

“Madam,” she said, “you're correct in calling for your husband. This business going on here is not only immoral—I suspect it is illegal as well.”

“Get your paws off me!” My aunt's lips were pursed, her eyes wide with fear, or perhaps it was guilt. Her face was beet red. She shook her head rapidly back and forth. Her voice quivered.

“Victor! It's the schoolmistress and she's, she's …
threatening
me!” She yanked her chubby arm out of Marni's grasp and inched back toward the library.

“They're in yer father's study,” said Addie. “It's where they do their dirty business, isn't it, missus?”

Aunt Margaret didn't answer, just blinked several times, her mouth pulled down in an insolent pout, arms crossed. Addie strode past her. Walter and I followed. “Open up, ye den of thieves!” shouted Addie. Walter pummeled the library door with both fists. Annie and Georgie huddled together, glaring at my aunt from the safety of Marni's shadow. Mr. Pugsley squirmed and growled.

Finally, the library door opened, and there stood my uncle, his black eyes narrowed, boring into me with a look of pure hatred. He turned his stare to Marni.

“Is this the kind of behavior you've been teaching my niece at your school, miss? And who are these scalliwags trespassing on my property?”

“You mean
my
property, don't you, Simmons?”

It was the judge, a sinister smile snaking across his lips, slithering beneath his large, curved mustache.

Marni stepped forward. “We have reason to believe that Miss Lucy's rights are being abused here, that Mr. Simmons forged the letter from his sister-in-law giving up her claim to her rightful inheritance and guardianship of her niece. We also have reason to believe that
you
, sir, have abused
your office as a member of the court.”

The judge chuckled. “I'm afraid that you, madam, are mistaken. There was a hearing, and I can assure you that Mr. Simmons here has his niece's best interests at heart. Don't you, Victor?”

My uncle smiled. “But of course.” He looked at me with barely masked contempt. “You'll be staying on with Miss Maude. Miss Maude, we will provide you with
quite
a hefty allowance for my niece's care.” He raised an eyebrow and curled the side of his lip in disgust as his eyes took in her overalls, soaked and caked with mud. “It does seem you could use it to buy yourself something decent to wear.”

“My silence about this fraud can't be bought, sir, if that's what you're suggesting,” Marni said evenly. “Money means much less to me than justice.”

“Is that right?” Uncle Victor snarled. “Well, in that case, we'll just have to find
another
school for her then, won't we? I'm sure there are any number of institutions that would welcome a handsome endowment.” He turned his attention back to the judge.

“I believe the matter of payment remains to be dealt with; am I correct?”

The judge held his leather satchel out toward my uncle. “Here it is, just as discussed.”

My uncle hesitated, eyeing the satchel hungrily,
a keen glint in his eyes, savoring the moment he'd no doubt been waiting for. At the same time the wind escalated again, and the house itself seemed to tilt and shift, throwing all of us off balance. The storm was fast becoming a hurricane. The house creaked and groaned. The wind screamed around its corners and railed against its walls. As the judge braced himself, the satchel tumbled from his grasp.

Walter, recovering first, dived for the satchel, knocking Aunt Margaret onto her generous behind. She slid along the tilted polished floor like a sledder without a toboggan, screaming all the way. Mr. Pugsley leaped from Annie's arms and took off after Margaret, yapping and nipping at her skirts, which sailed up around her like the billowing sails of a ship, exposing her fat sausage legs and thighs.

A snarl erupted from my uncle's lips as he lunged at Walter. Walter held on tightly to the satchel, stepped aside, and extended his foot. Victor, momentarily stunned and paralyzed with fury, flailed across the floor beside my aunt.

“Hurry, Walter!” shouted Marni, who had pulled Annie and Georgie close. Her eyes had that distant look that told me she was seeing something the rest of us could not see. “Downstairs!” she shouted. “Everyone downstairs!”

Addie and Walter rushed toward the cellarway.
The judge shrugged, an amused expression on his face, and turned toward the front door.

“I trust you will remove these people from my property, Simmons,” he said, “and that you yourself will vacate by week's end.” He grinned at my uncle, who was scuffling to his feet. The judge ceremoniously turned the knob and pulled open what was left of the door.

“And one more thing,” he added. “Be certain you have this door repaired before I move in.”

My uncle still seethed with rage, hands shaking, his small eyes darting this way and that, searching for Walter.

“Wait just a minute,” he shouted, waving his finger angrily at the judge. “Without that satchel, the sale isn't complete! The boy's gone off with the payment—and you're going to help me recover it!”

The judge laughed. “The satchel is no longer my responsibility. The papers were signed, the title of the property stands in my name, and as far as I'm concerned, the payment was received the moment I was relieved of my satchel. The fact that you allow your household to be overrun by a band of hellions is a problem you'll have to deal with on your own! Or perhaps you could call in the authorities for an investigation!”

He laughed at the unlikelihood of that
occurrence and turned cavalierly on his heel. As he stepped through the doorway, the entire house began to pitch back and forth in the wind, creaking and groaning like an oversized rocking chair. The judge was thrown back inside, and with him the Brute, sprawling and cursing, sliding across the floor as though swimming on dry land! He knocked them all over—the judge, Uncle Victor, and Aunt Margaret, who had barely managed to get back on her feet from her last fall. They toppled this way and that like an odd collection of human bowling pins.

Aunt Margaret screamed, as did Annie. Marni pressed us on toward the cellarway.

“Downstairs, do you hear me?” she repeated. “Lucy,
downstairs
!”

There was something in her eyes and in the steely tone of her voice that frightened me to the center of my being. Suddenly nothing seemed as important as going down to the cellar. I skirted past my stunned aunt sitting propped against the wall, past my uncle embroiled in a scuffle between the Brute and the judge.

The sound of crashing glass in Father's study stopped me in my tracks. I dashed to the doorway, peered inside.

The sea, its huge waves crashing against the side of the house, was pouring in through the window. Though it was impossible—
impossible
—for our house stood far above the high-water mark—the waves crested, the tide swelled and flooded the shoreline, overtaking the house! Water rippled across the floor, streaming over the rug, swirling in angry currents around the legs of Father's desk.