Lucy: Daughters of the Sea #3 (11 page)

S
HE HAD JUST ROUNDED
the bend when she heard someone call her name. It was Phineas.

Lucy felt her stomach twist. The memory of their kiss sent shivers down her spine, but she had just promised her parents she would try harder with the duke.

She could not even imagine the horror she would face if they knew of her attraction to a “native.” Indeed she might as well go off to the Arctic and marry an Inuit.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she stammered.

“Come to see Mr. Van Wyck about his yacht.” Under his arm he carried a tubular canvas satchel. “Some changes in the drawings.”

“I see,” she said, fingering the fringe on her shawl and trying to avoid looking at him. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“What brought you here?”

“Oh, nothing that would interest you.” She winced as the words slipped from her mouth.

“Lucy, are you all right?”

His concern made her heart twinge, and it was all she could do not to throw her arms around him. But then she imagined the look of dismay on her parents’ faces.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you.”

He took a step forward. “Lucy —”

She moved to the side to avoid his outstretched arm. “Good day, Mr. Heanssler.”

“You just seem a little … Never mind!” he said sharply. Then he nodded toward a sign that she had not previously noticed, which read
SERVICE ENTRANCE
. “I’ll be going this way,” he said pointedly.

“Yes, I suppose so.” She dared not look him in the eyes but continued on the main path, the proper path for a possible duchess, to Wyckmore, the Van Wyck cottage.

“Oh, thank you, my dear! How kind of your mother to send you. Please sit down for a moment and chat. Can I offer you something to drink — tea? — lemonade? It’s already so hot.”

Lucy stared at Mrs. Van Wyck in a sort of daze as the conversation with Phineas buzzed in her head.

“Lucy?”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I am actually in a bit of a hurry. I have … I have” — she searched for an excuse — “to meet someone.”

“Not the Duke of Crompton?” Mrs. Van Wyck said this with a coquettish tilt to her head, and her small dark eyes sparkled conspiratorially as if to invite a confidence.

“Oh, no … no.”

“But he’s quite nice, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, lovely.” Was she becoming a project for Mrs. Van Wyck as well as for Gus’s mother? How could all these people have such an interest in her?

“You know he is quite a good friend of the Prince of Wales.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” She was about to wonder what Lenora Drexel or Elsie Ogmont would think if they knew she was socializing with a member of the prince’s inner circle, but then Phineas’s face erased all other images. How could she have spoken to him in that tone?

“Yes, he’s very well connected.” Mrs. Van Wyck sighed. “He is truly a man of the world. You know, American husbands tend to be such sticks-in-the-mud. I mean, my dear husband, Sterling, is wonderful, but I really have to nearly pry him away from his office to get him to go anywhere. Percy has such a joie de vivre. He’s always ready for fun. And a real sense of style. So fashionable.” Lucy couldn’t help but think that the reason Sterling had to be pried loose was owing to the fact that he was making a living, whereas these English lords did not have any jobs to speak of. “So well connected,” she said again. “You know he has a seat in parliament, the House of Lords, of course. His grandfather was the chancellor of the exchequer, and often that office leads to prime minister, and there’s talk of the duke making a fine chancellor as well. Can you believe it?”

Lucy was unsure of what Mrs. Van Wyck was asking her to believe. So she just murmured, “Oh, my.” That seemed to be the safest response. “I had better be on my way, but thank you again. And Mother said she just loved the lilies.”

“I thought she would, coming from Baltimore. They are such a Southern flower. I know that her cousin Priscilla Bancroft has raised some prize ones.”

Mother’s cousin!
Lucy tried to disguise her dismay.

“In fact I think there is one named for her by a breeder. The Priscilla or something like that.”

“Yes, I believe there is.”
Good Lord,
Lucy thought,
the next thing there will be rumors of one named the Marjorie!

Lucy could not get away from the house fast enough. She felt a fury rising inside her. She was becoming a “project” for a bunch of bored, too-rich women who had nothing better to do.

Lucy’s eyes began to dart about Mrs. Van Wyck’s sun porch. How could her mother have lied like this? Did her father know? They loved her, she knew that, but this was too much. This room in which she sat with Mrs. Van Wyck suddenly seemed small and airless. She did not complete the thought. She made her excuses to leave and nearly ran out the front door.

The path ahead of her blurred, for her eyes had filled with tears as she ran. When she reached the place where she and Phin had parted, a sob tore from her as she spied the sign
SERVICE ENTRANCE
. It loomed in the shadows of the tall spruce trees like a harsh recrimination. Why had she treated him so horribly? Had she really lost her only chance at happiness all because she was trying to please her parents, her mother, who had spun this fantasy about Prissy Bancroft? This was a world with signposts to tell one which path to follow. But was there any for someone like herself? Was there a third path, a way where one did not have to lie about anything? Where you could be who you really are?

It was dusk by the time she approached her parents’ cottage, and she could hear the tide already lapping high on the cliff rocks. She knew she was too agitated to go into the parlor where they would be sitting, her mother with her needlepoint, her father reading his church correspondence from New York, or perhaps the Bulletin of the Dioceses. She simply could not face them. She sat by the cliff for a long time, until the moon began to rise. The liquid splash of the sea against the granite was a soothing song, so she turned toward the cliff path.

The tide had completely obliterated the beach and laid down a silver track to the rocks at the cliff’s base. She pulled off her dress and stood in her chemise and then petticoat. Her way to the cave was blocked. She imagined that the sloping rock she usually sat on in the cave would be completely submerged. She drew back.
What am I afraid of?
The soft wind blew her petticoat around her calves as if to tease her. She sat down on the very brink of the ledge. The water slipped over her knees to her thighs. She bent over. There was a sudden radiance issuing from beneath her hem that took her breath away.
It’s easy
, she thought, and slipped in. For a brief moment, she was upright in the water. The skirt of her slip swirled about her like the petals of a flower.
Let go! Let go!
a voice in her head whispered. She slid under the water and felt the curl and pull of the tide.
I am swimming!
The water deepened. She dove. She was now sliding through a tapestry of undulating amber sea grapes that, while dry and pallid onshore, now made her feel as if she were passing through spangles of tawny gold. She was unsure how long she had been swimming, but she realized abruptly that she had not taken a breath. She paused to consider this and rolled over onto her back still beneath the surface. The dark water sparkled with iridescent colors as if a watery rainbow had come aborning from the depths of the sea. It took her a moment to realize that it was not a rainbow. Her feet and legs had disappeared, replaced by a tail. The scales ranged from hues of emerald green to aquamarine and the softest pinks.
I have no feet. I have no knees nor thighs. I have a tail! I am not their kind or “our” kind, I am my kind! A daughter of the sea.
And somewhere she was sure she had a family.

She dove straight to the bottom to the seafloor, then, with a power she never even dreamed she possessed, she shot up, breaking through the surface, and leaped for the sliver of the moon.

T
HE SWEEPING LAWN
of the Hawley estate, Gladrock, allowed for three separate croquet fields to be set up. Not all the guests played, of course. There were small round tea tables scattered about, covered with creamy white linens, and servants circulating with platters of sandwiches, iced tea, and lemonade as well as salad plates with generous scoops of crabmeat nestled in ruffles of lettuce. It was well known that the Hawleys’ Mrs. Bletchley was the best cook on the island. When platters were brought forth with profiteroles, meringues, and tiny tarts, they always created a sensation with people who compared the delicate confections to jewelry, for they were exquisitely decorated with glazed berries, silver sugar dragées, confectioner’s confetti, and colored sugar crystals.

Those who were not eating or playing croquet wandered through the winding paths of the rose maze, or they could visit the greenhouses where Edwina Hawley raised her prizewinning orchids, or perhaps proceeded to her most recently established horticultural folly — a topiary garden.

But at the moment, all three croquet fields were in use, with ladies and gentlemen and a few youngsters chasing colored balls around with mallets.

Lucy found herself in a group of six that included Percy Wilgrew, two middle-aged gentlemen who were brothers, a young Hawley girl of about ten, and a woman who was apparently her governess.

Although the duke was not Lucy’s partner — she’d been paired with one of the middle-aged gentlemen, Godfrey Appleton — it seemed that he thought otherwise. Indeed, the duke completely ignored his own partner, the governess, Miss Ardmore, as Lucy was lining up her next shot.

“I believe if you take the wicket from about a twenty-degree angle off to the left, you’ll get through free and clear.” He paused. “But, oh, dear, I might be making this unnecessarily complicated for you. Do you understand degrees?”

Ettie Hawley gasped and Lucy looked up, her green eyes barely concealing her temper.

“Uncle God, how insulting is that!” Ettie hissed. “Besides, he should be helping Miss Ardmore and not the competition.”

Godfrey Appleton gave his niece’s shoulder a pat. “Calm yourself,” he whispered. “I think Miss Snow can take care of herself.”

“Your Grace,” Lucy began, for that was how her father said one was to address a duke.

“Oh, please, not such formality. We are not in court but on a croquet field in this beautiful place, Gladrock.” He swept his hand in an almost proprietary gesture.

“Precisely, and though it might surprise you or perhaps alarm you, I know exactly what a twenty-degree angle is even though I am not carrying a protractor.” With that she stepped forward and gave the ball a firm tap that sent it straight through the wicket, which gave her a bonus shot.

Ettie looked up at her uncle Godfrey and gave him a nudge with her elbow.

“Smashing performance!” the duke exclaimed.

Ettie nudged her uncle again and gave him a devilish look. “Watch me, Uncle God. I’m going to wrap this up.”

Ettie’s yellow ball was ahead and on her bonus shot, she hit the duke’s ball on her way through the wicket.

“Yay!” she whooped most indecorously. “Two bonus shots for me.”

“Two shots for hitting me, Miss Hawley?” the duke asked.

“Yes, Bar Harbor rules.” She looked at him grimly. “And wait till you see this.”

Ettie was lined up for the last wicket on the field.

Her uncle Godfrey had sidled up to his brother. “Yes, just wait. The little savage has been unleashed.”

Ettie slammed the croquet ball through the last wicket, hitting the post.

Miss Ardmore shuddered as her charge let out another wild whoop. “Poison! I’m poison,” Ettie screamed.

“Let the rampage begin!” Barkley said.

Ettie came back through the wicket, gaining herself another two bonus points (Bar Harbor rules). For her first bonus point, she came within three or four yards of the duke’s ball.

“Oh, my!” He grasped his chest. “Cruel maid, she is after me!”

“I’m not a maid!” Ettie muttered between clenched teeth. She hit her ball through the nearest wicket, which earned her another bonus point. She picked up the ball and brought it next to the duke’s, then put her foot on it, getting set for what was called a roquette hit.

“Wait a minute! You’re not roquetting me?” the duke protested.

“Indeed I am,” Ettie answered coolly.

“Are these Bar Harbor rules again?”

“No, Gladrock rules.” And she whacked the duke’s ball to kingdom come. “Death blow!” Ettie raised her mallet in the air and, stomping the grass, launched into a fierce little dance.

“I think she’s a most peculiar child,” the duke leaned over and whispered to Lucy.

Lucy was laughing and took off her hat to fan herself. “I think she is wonderful!”

Ettie had been glorying in her triumph just as Lucy took off her hat and some pale red ringlets fell down from the upswept knot her mother had arranged. Ettie blinked.
She looks so much like Hannah.
Her hair was paler and her nose a bit sharper. But her eyes were the same intense green. Ettie supposed she hadn’t noticed before because Lucy had been wearing her hat, and her face was in the shadows.

At the same moment, someone else noticed the young lady fanning herself with her brimmed hat. The clatter of a pitcher was heard falling on the dessert table.

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry!” Hannah said as she scurried to clean up the mess.

“Don’t worry,” Florrie, the other maid, said.

“Mrs. Bletchley will have my head. Look, I’ve spoiled the meringues.”

“Only a couple,” Florrie replied. “Run into the kitchen and fetch some more, and some cloths to mop this up. Look, nothing is broken.”

“I’m not sure what happened,” Hannah said.

“Well, you look rather flushed. Maybe the heat got to you.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“Go in and get a nice cool drink and rinse off your face. That’ll help.”

Hannah rushed back inside. She stopped in the breezeway outside the kitchen to catch her breath. It was just such a shock. She hadn’t been expecting it. But when the girl took off her hat, she knew in an instant that she was the one. And she also knew that she, her sister, had crossed over at last.

On another island, known as Barra Head, far across the sea, the southernmost island of the chain known as the Hebrides, a woman perched on a granite slab in a cave. She had been tuning a small Scottish harp, a
clàrsach
— no easy task. The first two strings were set to the same pitch. But on this morning, as Avalonia set to turning the pegs of the strings with her tuning key, she knew as soon as she plucked them that they were perfect. She felt a deep vibration within herself, an unearthly harmony as if there were strings inside her own body. She could hardly tell where she ended and the harp began. It was as if they had become one continuous living form. She knew instantly the meaning of the deep yet surging resonance that seemed to build within her. The third of her sister Laurentia’s children lived and would soon find the other two. The Laws of Salt were roiling through her veins. And if she were patient, the three young girls might find her as well. She leaned the small harp against her shoulder and began to sing