Currents (10 page)

Cliffs rose up on either side of the narrow beach and sheltered a small cove. Ever since they were small, Bess and Sarah had been warned not to climb the cliffs or play at the foot of the rocky jetties. The English Channel's currents sometimes sent in rogue waves that could carry unsuspecting beachcombers out to sea. Resting the picnic basket down next to a rock, the girls set out to hunt for unusual shells.

“Don't put them in your skirt, Sarah,” Bess ordered. “The maids will never get the smell out. Use the bag that Gertrude gave you.”

Hunched over their work, they combed through seaweed and broken shells and were occasionally rewarded with a delicately sculpted winkle or whelk. They had to keep a constant eye on Sunny Girl, because she was more interested in the snack bag and the biscuits it contained than sea glass, driftwood, and shiny limpet shells.

“Sunny Girl!” Bess called out. “Come. Come here!” She whistled her best low whistle that her father had taught her, and the dog turned and bounded back across the sand.

But she stopped short before reaching the girls and began digging at something shiny poking out of the sand.

“What is it now?” Annoyed, Bess rushed up to where the dog was pawing, certain that it would be some dead, smelly animal.

Sticking up from the sand was the top of a half-buried bottle. After ordering the dog back, Bess grasped the sand-pitted object by its neck and gently rocked it out of the damp sand. It was scratched, and the stopper was sealed tightly with wax. A rolled paper was clearly visible inside.

“Pirates!” Sarah cried, coming up from behind Bess.

“There are no pirates around here. For heaven's sakes, Sarah. Well, I don't think there are.” Bess held up the bottle and twisted it around and around, carefully examining it. The sisters looked at each other and Sarah said, “The Russians?”

“We've been at war in Crimea for a while now, but I don't believe that Russian soldiers are tossing bottles with notes in them out onto the sea,” Bess said.

They carried their potential treasure up to the dry rock where their picnic awaited before scratching away the wax with the sharp edge of a mussel shell and gently prying out the cork. It popped out with a
swoosh
.

Bess plucked out the rolled-up paper with her fingertips. She unfurled it and slowly read aloud:

Agnes May Brewster
Born: July 1843. Colored slave.

She turned the bottle around, inspecting it from all angles.

“What does it mean?” Sarah asked. “Is it some kind of sign or omen?”

“Don't be superstitious,” Bess ordered. She shook the bottle upside down, and a small carved heart tumbled out. She picked it up from the palm of her hand to closer inspect the tiny carved vines and little flower buds that wound around it.

“It's clearly been carved to be heart shaped,” Bess said. “Although I'm not sure from what.”

“Really, we were meant to find this,” said Sarah. “I'm sure of it. It might be a sign. Or a message. Maybe from Mummy!” Her eyes widened at the thought of it. “That could be it. It could be from Mummy, couldn't it?”

“I don't think so, Sarah. Mummy is with the angels now.”

“Bess! How do you know that the angels aren't over the sea?” Sarah asked.

“She's my age,” Bess noted as she read the paper over again. “Born July 1843. Agnes May Brewster.”

“Do you think this is really from some colored slave?” Sarah mused. “Maybe she was lost at sea on a raft, surrounded by hungry sharks, and with her last bit of strength she tossed this bottle overboard with a note and the heart trinket, hoping to be rescued.”

“It's possible. I don't know, Sarah, I don't know. We need to think about it, though. We can't trust anyone with this. You cannot tell anyone, do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sarah agreed. “Maybe it is some sort of plea for help?”

“No. It doesn't indicate anything of the sort. Of course, the good news here is that it doesn't appear to be from the Russians,” Bess noted.

“Oh, Bess,” Sarah said hopefully. “I still think it could have something to do with Mummy.”

“Sarah, I wish that were so,” Bess said softly. “But I don't believe that.”

Both girls took their time as they smoothed the rumpled note, touching the simple printed words and envisioning different possible explanations.

“Just think, Sarah. Imagine the adventures this little vessel has experienced. I almost wish I could stuff myself inside and be tossed back out to experience the world!”

After a while, they knew Mrs. Dow would miss them at home.

“We can't take it back with us, Sarah,” Bess said.

“Snoopy Elsie will find it,” she agreed.

“Maybe. But even if I could get it back to the house and hide it, I'm afraid someone will see us coming back with it.”

“We could hide it in the bag,” Sarah suggested.

“Oh, and I suppose you think that Gertrude or Mildred would keep it a secret if they should find it? I hardly think so. Then I'd have to worry about getting it back out again undetected. It's just safer to hide it here, away from Attwood. I'll come back on my way to the library on Thursday and take it to show Chap. He'll have a good idea where it's from.”

“You think you can trust him?” Sarah asked.

“More than any adult I know, except Papa and Mrs. Dow,” Bess answered.

They pulled a few small rocks out of the headwall to create a little cave, above the high-tide mark where their newfound treasure would be safe from the rains, tides, and animals. They could come back again and safely examine it, but for now they needed to return home. They poured the tea out onto the ground, fed the biscuits to Sunny Girl, and hurried back across the fields and paths to the great stone house.

“I
'd rather pretend we're going to a fancy ball,” complained Sarah. Bess diligently wove chamomile flowers into her sister's long dark braid before tying a handkerchief like a band around her own head.

“Any fool can get themselves off to a ball, Sarah,” Bess explained. “We are preparing ourselves for the true adventures that are going on in the world this very minute. We don't know that Agnes May Brewster tossed that bottle overboard before she drowned. Perhaps she is living right now on a plantation in America as someone's slave. There are all sorts of incredible things going on all over the world.

“But for today's game, I have read about the native people called Indians living in the American West. They are a thieving, bloodthirsty group that paint their faces and go around practically naked, murdering the settlers.”

“The Indians are the natives?” Sarah asked, her brown eyes flickering.

“Yes, that's what I've read,” Bess confirmed.

“Perhaps they aren't happy with people coming and taking over their country, then. Maybe that's why they are murdering and thieving. How would you like it if people landed their boats on the Isle of Wight and started taking everything over?”

“Well, I don't know the whole story,” Bess answered. “And I don't think I will until I am old enough to visit America and get the straight truth for myself. But until that day, we need to practice our skills. Here, put this around your shoulders and pretend it's a sacred Indian blanket.”

Sarah stood draped in an old, frayed bed cover from their dress-up chest, her hair laced in white flowers with a feather sticking out of the top, reluctantly waiting for her orders. “Tomorrow can we play fancy ball?”

“Yes, yes, you goose,” Bess said.

“You're not just saying that?” Sarah asked. “Last week we pretended every day that we were British soldiers fighting the Russians. Before that we explored India like Papa at least a hundred times. If I fight off a pretend tiger one more time I shall save it the trouble and kill myself! This week it is Indians every day, and now I can see slavery in my future. I'm tired of all this violence. I want to play fancy ball. Do you promise?”

“Yes, I promise,” Bess said. “And may I remind you that we are still at war with the Russians in Crimea. You'll be glad some day that you were prepared, should the Russians defeat our boys and decide to land on our little island next.”

“Could such a thing happen?” Sarah asked.

“Who knows in this world.” Bess tucked a pretend knife in her belt and slung a branch shaped like a rifle over her shoulder. “I'll put my head down now and count to ninety-nine. You go off somewhere and hide. Don't make it too easy. I'm the scout, and I'm going to track you down.”

Sarah's eyes narrowed. “And then what will you do to me when you find me?”

Bess remembered when she'd tackled her sister last week when Bess had been a British soldier and Sarah had been the Russian enemy soldier. Sarah had flopped facedown on the grass, and Bess felt bad that she still had scabs on her knees.

But the game must carry on anyway. Bess cocked one eyebrow and gave Sarah a wicked glance. “I suggest, my pretty, that you don't get caught.” Bess buried her head in her knees and began. “One, two, three . . . Go boldly, Sarah!” She snickered. “Four, five . . .” Listening carefully while she counted, she made note of which direction her prey ran. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine.”

Straightening up, Bess took in her surroundings with confidence. She had twisted her long black hair up into a bun and fastened it with barrettes to keep it out of her way. They had left Sunny Girl in the house. It would be too easy to find one another with the dog's keen nose. That would have taken all the sport out of it.

The field, dotted with ancient apple trees and tall, dark-green yews, stretched out nearly flat in every direction. Sarah had taken off running to the east, but Bess was too clever to be fooled by this ruse. Chap had told her that when giving chase, expect your prey will try to throw you off by first heading in one direction only to change course when they are out of sight or earshot. Bess learned a great deal from her seafaring friend, which she, in turn, had taught Sarah. She figured that her sister would have run for no more than a minute in one direction, and then turned and gone a different way. Leading with her branch-rifle, she walked purposefully toward the west. It wasn't long before she spotted a freshly twisted chamomile flower on the ground. She smiled to herself.

She would march on to the edge of the field and scout the perimeter, searching for more evidence of where her prey might have entered the woods. She had barely reached the edge of the field when she heard the sound of her sister's bloodcurdling scream. She spun around and looked out toward a lone apple tree twenty yards ahead, where she saw Sarah waving her arms high up in the tree. Sarah crashed down through the lower branches and landed with a thud on the ground below. She jumped up, still screaming, and began to run. A dark wave of angry wasps surrounded her and dived at her head—each blistering sting provoking another howl. Bess ran toward her sister, and by the time they reached each other, the winged tormenters had turned and retreated back to their hive in the apple tree.

Red welts had already begun to spring up on Sarah's face and hands, and her hysterical crying filled the field and carried toward the house.

Gertrude and Mrs. Dow, skirts flying, dashed out the kitchen door. Gertrude was wielding a rolling pin like a weapon above her head. The stable master, who had been down grooming the horses, dropped his brushes and came running, too.

When everyone reached Sarah, her eyes were wild and rolling, and she was gasping between sobs. She looked up at her sister, pulled the feather from her headband, and threw it at Bess. “See what you've done! Stupid Indians!”

All eyes turned toward Bess, and her face flushed. “I didn't tell her to go up into a tree with a wasp nest,” she said.

“I do regret your experience,” she went on. “But you have clearly survived and will perhaps be a stronger woman for it.”

There was a collective groan from the adults as they hustled the whimpering Sarah off to the kitchen to be treated with salves and cold wet cloths.

Once Sarah's stings were tended to, Gertrude poured cups of tea for all of them.

“I'm sorry. I truly am.” Bess felt worse as her sister's face continued to swell.

“We know that, my dear,” Mrs. Dow said in a calm voice. “But you need to be more careful on your adventures, especially when you have your younger sister with you. I needn't remind you of the frightful spill you both took when you were out lumbering around on those wooden stilts.”

“Rest assured that in the future, I will indeed be more cautious. I'm sorry for all . . . ,” Bess said as she waved her hands over her sister's head, “. . . all this.”

“I forgive you,” Sarah said with a gallant smile.

“There, now,” Mrs. Dow said to Bess. “You have apologized, which is good for your soul, and Sarah has accepted your apology, which is good for hers. The matter is closed.”