Uncertain Glory (16 page)

I had to try.

I sat down at the desk and wrote:

Dear Miss Gramercy,

Owen Bascomb, a young friend of mine, only nine years old, who works at the
Herald
, has run away. He's been gone more than twenty-four hours now. His parents and everyone are real worried. If you and your voices could help find him and bring him home, I'd be most grateful. I'll be outside the Mansion House kitchen door after your tea.

Sincerely yrs,

Joe Wood

I read it over, scratched out “Joe Wood” and wrote “Joseph Wood, owner,
Wiscasset Herald.
” Then I added “P.S. This is not a trick, or for publication. I really need your help!”

I folded the letter and headed for the Mansion House.

Chapter 31

Thursday, April 18, midday

Mrs. Giles was bustling around the Mansion House kitchen, flour on her apron and hands, while tantalizing smells rose from the covered platters she was handing to Abby Tarbox and Rose Chambers, who were serving midday dinner to customers in the dining room.

“Joe Wood, whatever are you doing in my kitchen?” she asked, pushing me aside to reach for a plate of pastries. I hadn't been hungry before, but looking at those sweets made me feel like Trusty, his mouth open and dripping, waiting for me to give him a stew bone. “Charlie's not around,” she added. “I haven't seen him since breakfast.”

“I'm not looking for him,” I said.

“Then get out of my way. I've a job to do,” she said. “It's mealtime.”

“Do you take a tea tray up to Nell Gramercy and the Allens?” I asked quickly, moving out of her way.

“I fix one for them,” she said. “Rose is the one takes it up. Four-fifteen every afternoon, sharp. Why should that be a concern of yours?”

“Curious.”

She stopped a moment, and eyed me. “Curious about that Miss Gramercy, I'd wager. Sweet little thing she is, even if she does have a strange way about her. Talking to the dead and all.”

I nodded slightly. Whatever it took, to learn what I needed to know. I asked very softly, “Do you know her room number?”

She almost cackled. “I knew it! Young romance!”

Abby Tarbox tittered in the corner and winked at me. My cheeks turned as red as a courting cardinal.

“Guest-room numbers are strictly confidential,” Mrs. Giles said, tossing some of her softest white rolls into a silver bowl and handing it to Abby. “Get this to table six, girl.”

As soon as Abby had left the room, she turned to me. “Her room is number twenty-three, Joe. But if you tell anyone you heard it here, I'll box your ears, so help me. Now, get on with you. And don't get yourself or that girl in any trouble!”

I ran out the inside back door of the kitchen, the one that led to the wing where Charlie's room was. I could always say I was going to see him. I'd been in that corridor often enough, although those times, I'd been with Charlie. He'd once pointed out the narrow back staircase to the second and third floors—the one the maids used. I listened. Right now everyone seemed to be in the dining room.

I headed up. On the second floor a door opened to the hallway between the public rooms and the private rooms. Where room twenty-three would be.

The sound of dishes being served and people talking came from the dining room. I'd picked a good time.

Charlie had said that Nell and her family ate in her aunt and uncle's room. They were probably there now. My only chance was to slip my note under Nell's door and hope that she saw it before her uncle did.

Room 23, marked in large brass numbers, was on the left side of the hall.

I took the note out of my pocket, reached down, and slid it under the door—and felt a large hand grip my shoulder.

Chapter 32

Thursday, April 18, afternoon

Caught.
But luckily, my note had already vanished under Nell's door.

“What are you doing here?”

It was Charlie's father. He'd seen me; there was no sense pretending.

“Leaving something for Miss Gramercy.”

“Nothing that will annoy her, I hope.” Mr. Farrar was a lot taller than Pa; I'd never noticed that before. “No, sir. A copy of the interview Charlie and I did with her.” (Yup; I lied. But this was important, and I couldn't very well tell him the truth, could I?)

“And I suppose she told you this was her room?”

“How else would I have known?” I wasn't real good at looking innocent, but I did my best. I didn't want to get Mrs. Giles in trouble.

“Well, you've done what you came for; now get out of here.”

I started down the hallway. Fast. Mr. Farrar's voice stopped me.

“Joe, where's Charlie? You two are usually together.”

“He's out looking for Owen Bascomb.”

“Ah, yes. No one's found that poor boy yet? Let's hope he turns up soon, and alive. You get on, and tell Charlie he's expected to check in here once in a while.”

“Yes, sir. I'll tell him.”

I scooted down the front stairs, between a few folks leaving the dining room. It was close to two-thirty, according to the grandfather clock in the lobby. If Nell were able to get away, it wouldn't be until after she'd had tea.

I had enough time to go home, get something to eat, and check in at the Bascombs' to see if Owen had shown up. I crossed my fingers that somehow he'd be there to greet me, and I could tell Nell I didn't need her voices after all. If I moved quickly I might even have time to set a few lines of type before coming back to the Mansion House.

I took off, running.

By a little past four-thirty I was back, outside the Mansion House kitchen door. I'd confirmed the news (or lack of it) all over town: No one had found a trace of Owen Bascomb. Men and boys had searched through sail lofts, boatyards, and lumberyards. Women and children had checked cellars, attics, ells, and barns. Storekeepers had checked that no one was hiding in their storerooms or under their counters or behind their cabinets. Even the tavern owners had hunted in their storage areas and kitchens. Owen had disappeared.

No one knew where else to look.

Except in the Sheepscot River. Now even its tidal flows seemed ominous. Mariners climbed down from wharves and docks and floats and checked the mudflats below. Gulls surveyed their search, hoping for tidbits of mussels or razor clams or crabs. But still, no trace of a missing nine-year-old boy.

Nothing.

Ominously, nothing.

Some people had already given up and gone home for the night.

“He'll show up, one way or the other,” I heard one man say. “We have to get on with our lives.”

I kept trying not to think about the day Ethan had disappeared. Maybe if we'd looked for him earlier. Or harder. Or more people had looked. Maybe . . .

We had to find Owen. How could we just stop looking?

I'd told no one about the note I'd left. It was enough that Charlie had laughed at me, and now Mrs. Giles thought I had a crush on Nell. My cheeks heated up at just the thought of that.

I stood in the shadows, behind the empty barrels stored by the kitchen entrance to the Mansion House, hoping Mrs. Giles wouldn't come out to get a breath of fresh air and find me standing there.

How long should I wait? Would Nell be able to come? Would she even want to? Could she escape a second time without her uncle or aunt knowing? Was I wasting my time, as Charlie'd said?

Maybe I should have been out looking for Owen myself instead of hiding in the shadows near the discarded barrels at the back of the Mansion House. I paced back and forth in the small space, unable to keep still. Daylight was beginning to fade. So little time left to find Owen.

Wherever he was, he'd soon be caught in the darkness for another long, cold night. April nights were not killers like those in January, but they were still close to freezing. Without food or water, wherever he was, Owen had to be in trouble. Deep trouble. If he'd been able to come home by now, he would have.

I focused on the town. On the land. Not on the river beyond Water Street.

Focused so hard I hardly heard the kitchen door open.

Chapter 33

Thursday, April 18, 5:15 p.m.

Nell's white dress and fair hair were covered by a dark cloak. She hesitated a moment, and then saw me.

“You came,” I said, amazed she'd gotten away.

“You needed my help,” she said. “Quickly—we need to leave here before they find I'm not in my room. I told my uncle I had a headache and had to rest.”

“Follow me.”

The encroaching dusk and Nell's dark cloak helped to hide her identity as we dodged through the alley in back of the Main Street stores, down toward the river, and then toward the
Herald
office. It was the only place I could think of where we could talk.

She stepped inside and looked around. “How wonderful! You have a real printing establishment here.” She touched the press and looked at the trays of type Charlie and I'd left unfinished. “What are you working on?”

“I've been asked to print copies of Maine's Act to Raise Volunteers for all the towns in Lincoln County. If I finish the job by Monday morning, I'll be able to pay off what I owe, and I'll own everything here, free and clear. If I don't, then I'll lose the business.” I blurted out what I hadn't even told Ma and Pa. Somehow I felt I could tell Nell.

“But instead, you're looking for your friend.”

“I couldn't stay here and work when Owen was missing.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Like my letter said, his name is Owen Bascomb and he's nine years old. You answered a question for his parents at your meeting last Saturday. You told them they would have another child.”

Nell sat in the chair by the desk. Her expression drifted a little, as it had at the meeting. “I remember.”

“They had another son, a boy younger than Owen, but he died of fever. Owen's father tried to enlist yesterday morning, but was told the army didn't want him because he wasn't white. Owen was upset, and ran away.”

“Tell me more about Owen. Owen himself.” Nell's voice was calm.

“He has a parrot named Gilthead that his uncle, a blue-water mariner, gave him. He works with me here at the print shop. He'd sooner do that than go to school, but he's sharp. He attends classes off and on, and catches up with his lessons quick enough. He doesn't have any close friends his own age that I know of. He brags sometimes, about workin' here. And he bragged about how good a soldier his father would be. Other boys don't like his talkin' as though he's better than they are.”

What else was there to say about Owen?

“He's a good boy. A hard worker.” I paused. “He's my friend.”

Nell didn't say anything. She sat, staring at nothing. Then she began to sway slightly, back and forth, from side to side. “Waters . . . waters . . . separating . . .”

My hands went cold. Owen had drowned, then. Like Ethan. That must be what she was seeing. He was separated from us by the waters. Why had I asked her to help? I didn't want to hear this.

“Soldiers . . . many soldiers. I see soldiers over the water. And gray stones. Lines of gray stones . . .”

Nell stopped. Her voice changed. “That's all; it's gone. But I saw something. It was all mixed up. I don't know this area, or Owen. You'll have to help put the pieces together, Joe.”

“Is Owen dead, then?”

“I didn't see that,” she said, surprised. “I didn't see him at all, to be truthful. But what I saw had something to do with where he is. Clues.”

“You said
waters.
The Sheepscot is deep and wide, and borders Wiscasset. For sure that's the biggest water near here.”

“What else did I say?”

“You don't know?”

“When I'm in one of my trances, as I was a few minutes ago, it's a little like being in a dream. I can't always remember what happened.” Nell smiled and shrugged. “I'm used to it, but I know it sounds strange. If you need my help, then I need yours to help interpret what I saw and said.”

“You said
separating.
”

Nell nodded. “That was close to
waters?
”

“Yes, I think so.” This was harder than I'd thought it would be. I'd imagined she'd just be able to close her eyes and tell me where Owen was, and I could go and get him. I should have written down everything she'd said.

“The Sheepscot River is right there,” Nell said, pointing at the river, which we could now barely see in the darkness through the window. “What does it separate? What's on the other side of the river?”

“That's Davis Island. Part of the town of Edgecomb.”

“I remember,” Nell said. “You told me that the night we met on the street. I'd wanted to walk on the bridge, and you said it would be too dangerous because of the ice.”

“You think Owen might have gone over the bridge to Edgecomb?” I'd never thought of Owen leaving this side of the river. So far as I knew, no one else had thought of that either.

“The other words I said—what were they?”

“
Soldiers. Lines of gray stones.
”

“Is there a graveyard for war veterans in Edgecomb?” Nell asked.

“No,” I said, jumping up and grabbing her hand to pull her with me. “Not a graveyard. But I think I know where Owen is now! Thank you!”

I didn't know for sure if Nell was right, but her clue had given me the best idea so far as to where to look for Owen. Maybe those spirits of hers really did know what was happening. If I found Owen, then Charlie'd be proved wrong. Nell wasn't a fraud.

I started toward the door, then stopped. “You should go back to the inn before your uncle finds out you're gone.”

“I'm not going back; I'm going with you,” said Nell, pulling her cloak around her body. “I've never had an adventure like this. I don't care what my uncle says; if your friend Owen's in trouble, it might be good if there are two of us.”