Graven Images (3 page)

Sitting on a bench, she inspected her tansy, eyeing the cornmeal-yellow petals and recalling how Ethan too had loved flowers. She grinned to remember the morning they’d merrily roamed the cliff, two summers before, collecting posies of hawkweed and chicory — and at once the smile left her lips. For that was the day the loquacious Mrs. Gump had stopped them to chat on their return. The woman’s ill-mannered son had appeared, while she jabbered about her watery eye, and the pain in her lungs, and the history of her limp — till Miss Frye turned around to find the boys gone, dashing through Mrs. Gump’s melon patch and trampling her corn, playing at pirates.

It was not till weeks later that Miss Frye discovered that Ethan was sneaking off in the evenings, to cavort with Mrs. Gump’s son and others. When she’d confronted him, he was unrepentant and had openly mocked her in Sarah’s presence. Recalling her ship-bred, rum-sodden sons, she’d had no choice but to be stern with the boy, determined he’d bloom according to plan.

And now, she reflected, Ethan was gone, his promise lost forever.

Miss Frye marched indoors and entered the parlor, closed the curtains, and approached Tekoa. The girl was setting her dough to rise, and although Miss Frye knew there was mending to be done, she felt driven to find out if anything further about the
Orion
might come to light.

“Rest yourself awhile,” said Miss Frye, “and aim your eyes on the binnacle boy.”

The girl sat down and no sooner looked out than Miss Bunch, Miss Mayhew, and Mrs. Stiggins made their way to the door.

“Good day, Tekoa,” bubbled Miss Bunch. “And good day to you, my dear Miss Frye. A day
especially
long for one so recently robbed of her child.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Mayhew. “The very reason we felt bound to help you pass the time.”

Miss Frye’s lips puckered. “How very thoughtful.”

“Perhaps Tekoa could be of assistance,” suggested Miss Bunch.

“If she’s free,” said Miss Mayhew.

Mrs. Stiggins tapped her parasol on the floor. “That justice might be done.”

The women seated themselves in the parlor and Tekoa resumed her place at the window.

An hour passed in silent suspense, Miss Frye’s three guests providing the barest minimum of their promised companionship.

“Tell me, Tekoa,” Miss Bunch spoke up. “How does your precious sister fare?”

“The same, ma’am,” the girl replied.

Miss Bunch shook her head and softened her voice. “I’ve heard it said that Sarah had a sweetheart among the
Orion
’s crew. Simeon Sprigg, they say it was.” She glanced from one pair of eyes to the next. “They say the two were seen talking together and that he’s the cause of the girl’s affliction.”

Her listeners shook their heads in sympathy, then returned their attention once more to Tekoa.

Patiently, the girl looked out, though no one was near the binnacle boy. She trained her gaze on the swirling swallows and watched the swifts careen through the sky. She studied a sparrow feeding its young — and suddenly noticed a figure appear, approach the statue, and seek out its ear.

“What is it, Tekoa?” Miss Frye demanded.

“Something spoken, ma’am. To the binnacle boy.”

“Naturally, child! But what? Speak it out!”

Tekoa swallowed. She glanced about. Her lips quivered nervously.

“‘He wouldn’t listen. He wished to roam free — and signed himself aboard the
Orion.
’”

Mrs. Stiggins bolted to her feet. “Quick, child — is this the same speaker as before?”

Gloomily, Tekoa nodded, and Mrs. Stiggins’ eyes blazed.

“I
demand
to know who it is at once!”

Seeing the woman charging toward her, Tekoa clasped the curtains shut.

“Away, child!” Mrs. Stiggins ordered. She grabbed a curtain and flung it open.

“Sarah!” she gasped. “Sarah Peel!”

The others scrambled at once to the window.

“Protecting her older sister, she was!” Mrs. Stiggins shouted out. “But we’ll get to the truth — believe me we will!”

Snatching her parasol, she steamed out the door, with Miss Bunch and Miss Mayhew right behind her.

“Tekoa, stay here and mind the bread!” Miss Frye settled a stern eye on the girl. Then quickly she followed her guests out the door, and found them standing in a circle around Sarah.

“So it’s you!” thundered Mrs. Stiggins. “You who can’t get a word out your lips.”

“Except to the binnacle boy,” said Miss Mayhew.

“And small wonder that your jaws seized shut.” Mrs. Stiggins peered into her eyes. “With a secret like yours perched on your tongue.”

Sarah lowered her gaze at once and fingered her long brown hair.

“Namely,” Mrs. Stiggins proclaimed, “that it was
you
who murdered the
Orion
’s crew!”

Sarah’s eyes opened wide in terror.

“You couldn’t bear your sweetheart, Simeon Sprigg, forsaking you for the sea.” Mrs. Stiggins poked the girl’s shoe with the tip of her parasol. “So you poisoned him — and his mates as well!”

Speechlessly, Sarah shook her head, desperately denying the charge. Her jaws trembled, her lips twitched. She labored to open her mouth and speak, noticed Miss Frye’s eyes upon her — and all of a sudden broke free.

“Seize her!” Mrs. Stiggins screamed.

Panic-stricken, Sarah dashed off, holding the hem of her skirt as she ran.

“She mustn’t escape!” Miss Bunch cried out, and the four took after her in pursuit. Down the middle of the street they scurried, gathering the curious to their cause and shouting for those with fleeter feet to catch the girl at once. Panting, the women turned down an alley and soon trailed the mob they’d called into being. Along the common, past the graveyard, through a field they hurried along, till they crossed a meadow and at last caught up with the rest of the crowd at the cliff.

“And where’s the girl?” Mrs. Stiggins demanded.

A man turned around. “Sarah Peel, ma’am?”

“Of course! And who
els
e
?” Mrs. Stiggins snapped.

“Fell from the cliff, ma’am. Drowned, she did.”

Mrs. Stiggins gasped.

Miss Frye closed her eyes.

“Poor, dear Sarah,” she whispered.

Side by side, without speaking a word, the women slowly made their way homeward. Left alone for the final block of her journey, Miss Frye cast a glance at the binnacle boy, turned to her left, and approached his ear.

“Sarah spoke truly — he meant to go to sea. Not Simeon Sprigg, but my Ethan.”

She paused for a moment. “Sarah must have seen.” She licked her lips and drew closer to the statue. “That it was I who poisoned the
Orion
’s crew.”

Miss Frye glanced across at her planting of tansy, with whose deadly leaves she’d destroyed her wayward son, and the corrupting crew as well. Dreamily, she stared at the flowers, yellow as the noonday sun — and so failed to notice Tekoa Peel remove her gaze from her mistress’s lips, take a step back from the parlor window, and hurry toward the back door.

Mr. Solomon Quince, master shoemaker, stood beside Nicholas, his fledgling apprentice, inhaled the spring air, looked up at the stars — and, ignorant of the constellations, found the sky strewn with the shapes of shoes.

“Well, now, Nicholas, my lad,” he said. “How does the ancient and honorable craft of shoemaking agree with you?” He sucked on his pipe and surveyed the heavens, picking out jackboots and brocade slippers.

“Very well,” mumbled Nicholas. He cleared his throat. “Fine, sir.”

His master smiled and savored the night. A moon lit up the great city of Charleston, capital of the colony of South Carolina, and threw Mr. Quince’s portly profile onto the walk in front of his shop.

“A noble calling it is, Nicholas.” Scanning the sky, Mr. Quince spied the shapes of glue pots and pliers and mallets and lasts. “Aye, and I wager you’ll serve it well.”

The shoemaker studied his lanky apprentice. The boy was thin as a wrought-iron picket, with a shirt that hung like a sail in a calm. His brown eyes were fixed on the distant stars.

“That is,” continued Mr. Quince, “if you learn to leave off
daydreaming
and buckle your brains to your work.”

Nicholas started and disengaged his eyes from the heavens.

“You’ve got promise, lad. That’s plain as a peacock. But you’ll have to give up your moonin’ about.” Mr. Quince put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Look alive at your work! Keep your eyelids hoisted! Stay alert as a hare, lad — a hare chased by hounds!”

Nicholas swallowed and straightened his posture.

“It’s a worthy trade you’ve chosen, Nicholas. A glorious, an
exalted
trade.” Mr. Quince lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you imagine King George could do without shoes? Or the Turkish Sultan? Or the Empress of China?”

Mr. Quince disclosed a knowing smile.

“Nay, lad — they come to us. Crawling on their hands and knees!” Triumphantly, he puffed on his pipe. “And see that you’re ready for ’em, Nicholas! Keep your fingers busy and your blinkers wide open. Give yourself to your work, lad, body and breeches, just like old Saint Crispin himself.”

He gestured toward the weathervane on his roof, a hollow copper likeness of Saint Crispin, patron saint of shoemakers. Nearly as large as Nicholas and sporting a head of chiseled curls, the saint was shown sitting at his bench, his hammer upraised above a shoe.

“Always busy. Blinkers cocked on his work. Mark his ways, my lad — and follow.”

Nicholas studied his patron saint. While the other vanes in sight pointed west, Saint Crispin was facing east at the moment, the result of a blow from a mulberry branch that had struck it during a hurricane. Believing, however, that the figure’s main function was to advertise his shop, Mr. Quince had never bothered to repair it, untroubled that it looked east for days, then found itself stuck to the north, then the south.

“You’ve a friend there, lad. A friend and protector.”

In wonder Nicholas gazed at the saint, who no longer tracked the source of the wind but noted instead, the apprentice fancied, other events, mysterious and sublime.

“Always watching over you, he is.” Mr. Quince turned toward Nicholas. “So you needn’t bother to busy your brains over anything but your work!”

Across the Ashley River came a breeze, bearing, as if to market, a cargo of jasmine and magnolia scents. Mr. Quince breathed in the fragrant air and raised his eyes to the stars.

“Let your thoughts never stray from shoes, Nicholas.” Viewing the sky, he suddenly pulled the pipe from his mouth and gaped at the stars. “And your dreams as well, lad — always upon leather!”

Mesmerized, Mr. Quince peered at the heavens as though he were under a spell. Then abruptly he glanced at his apprentice, as if the boy might have found him out. For his eyes had discovered in the western sky not shoes but the face of the woman he worshiped, the venomous Miss Catchfly.

“Aye, lad,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “Shoe leather! Shoe leather and thread!”

“Shoe leather and thread,” Nicholas murmured, forgetting the words at once. For he too was staring at the western sky, at the very stars Mr. Quince held dear, whose arrangement suggested no scrap of cowhide but rather the girl who worked at Miss Catchfly’s grocery, for whom he pined in private — the comely Juliana.