Lucy: Daughters of the Sea #3 (6 page)

M
ARJORIE
S
NOW’S GRUMPINESS
continued into the evening as she complained that no one would ever find them “out here deep in the woods, deep in the fog.” Lucy’s father, however, seemed quite content and was focused on his sermons, somewhat distractedly trying to placate his wife with what Lucy thought of as pablum phrases, the soft cereal food for infants. For indeed Marjorie could become quite infantile when she was bored or crossed. “My dear, there is no one here yet. Fear not. They will come. We shall be sought out. Lucy shall be able to wear her tea dancing gowns and her bathing costume.”

Lucy shut her eyes at the thought of the hideous bathing costume.
I’ll swim in a tea gown before I wear that freakish thing
, she thought to herself.

Her father began to yawn, then her mother as well. Her father yawned again. “I declare,” he said, “I believe the sea is having a soporific effect on us all.”

Lucy pretended to yawn, though she was quite wide awake.
Let them all go to bed….

Her parents’ room was in the back of the cottage on the first floor, while the room she had chosen was in the front on the second floor, with a window that looked straight out to sea. Lucy could not believe how bright the stars were, for the fog that had wrapped the cottage tightly for most of the day had vanished. Each pane in the window framed a half dozen silvery dots. As a seemingly endless procession of stars clambered over the horizon to the east, each pane of glass became a fragment of a puzzle. Lucy was now trying to assemble them in her mind into the constellations she had read about. Until now, her study of astronomy had all been book learning. There were no stars in Manhattan as far as she could tell. The night was too crowded with city lights and tall buildings and plumes of smoke belched from factories and furnaces. But here by the sea, the stars cut the night sharply, as if the sky and all of its constellations swooped down to touch the Earth and the sea. Darkness, Lucy realized, was the wellspring of beauty. And she could not help but wonder what beauty lay beneath the dark surface of the water for it, too, must hold unimagined treasures.

Her parents were surely asleep now. She lifted the covers from her bed and wrapped herself in a shawl, ignoring her high button shoes and her stockings draped over the chair. If the path was slippery, she’d rather be in her bare feet than those brand-new shoes with slick, unscuffed soles.

She crept down the stairs. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and in no time she was picking her way down the path. The tide was out and she was able to jump down from a ledge just a few feet above the beach shingled with rocks. The damp stones felt wonderful under her feet and she noticed that she hardly limped. Could the salt water somehow have a therapeutic effect? She felt the tendons in her ankle relax, and her foot seemed to come unbound. The sensation was so startling that she pulled up the hem of her dress and looked down. It was the same foot and yet it did not seem to turn inward nearly as much. She walked on until she saw a cleft in the rocks. A deeper darkness appeared to yawn into the night. She followed a rivulet of water that plowed a narrow path toward the cleft.

It’s a cave!
she thought. A real cave like in
Treasure Island
, which she had read at least half a dozen times. Or Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, which she had read about in the
Harper’s Weekly
and had been dying to visit and to explore its limestone maze of tunnels. When she had suggested that they might visit this place, her mother had shrieked “
Kentucky
!” as if Lucy had suggested a trip to the moon, or perhaps Africa or the Orient.

But this was a real cave and Lucy was walking into it evenly, steadily, with no limp whatsoever. There was an almost imperceptible change in her vision, as if, within her eye, there was another that could penetrate the shadows of the cave. She could see with amazing clarity in this darkness that swirled with salty vapors from the sea.

Slabs of pink granite sloped gently from the cave walls to where the water would flow in at high tide. She could see a line on a broad slant of rock where the tide had stopped. But then she spied something else and gasped. Three wooden pegs, tree branches really, were jammed into cracks in the rocks. Hanging from two of the branches were some girls’ garments. Someone had been in this cave. She looked around cautiously. The beckoning darkness had felt so welcoming with her first steps into the cave, but now she was not so sure. What if she had accidentally intruded into the secret hideout of two close friends? They surely wouldn’t be happy to find the summer pastor’s daughter poking around. An overwhelming sense of loneliness suddenly swept over her. She didn’t want to be excluded, not here. Not in this cave. In New York she didn’t mind if girls like Elsie Ogmont or Lenora Drexel or Denise De Becque thought her odd, but here it mattered. That was the most peculiar thing of all. This was not a Fifth Avenue drawing room; this was a granite cave with a beautiful filigree of moss climbing its walls as lovely as any lace. Yet now it mattered more than ever to her that she might be thought of as peculiar. She had never felt more desolate in her life.

She came closer to the branches where a camisole hung. It was similar to the one she was wearing but almost in tatters. On the branch next to it was a petticoat in equal disrepair. There was also a velvet ribbon faded and stiff with salt, and tied to one end of it was a strangely beautiful shell, the likes of which she had never seen. It looked a bit like a scallop shell, but it was quite flat and the ribs were deeply indented. She could not resist touching it. She looked over her shoulder as if to confirm that she was alone and no one was coming. She reached out her hand slowly and noticed that her fingers were trembling.

She removed the shell and its ribbon from the branch to examine it more carefully. She gasped as she saw a strand of red hair twined through the indented ribs. Someone had worn this as a comb in her hair! She could not resist trying it in her own and loosed her hair from the night knot she always twisted it into when she went to bed. Then she ran the comb through and felt the points of the teeth scrape against her scalp. She closed her eyes. In that instant, she knew that the shell came from a place so deep that no human would ever go there. Whoever it was who had retrieved this lovely shell would be very different from those fashionable young ladies who had looked down their long patrician noses at her.

She fixed the comb so that the hair on one side was pulled back behind one ear. She only wished there was a mirror so she could see her reflection. This was a style her mother would have disapproved of as being too sophisticated, or perhaps “tartish.” It occurred to her that with the rising water she might have the perfect mirror — a liquid mirror.

She walked toward the entrance of the cave in order to have the benefit of the moonlight. The water at the entrance was much higher than before. She crouched down at the edge and peered at the surface. Her face loomed up trembling on the soft undulations of the water. The reflection of stars quivered around the reflection of her face. She didn’t look too sophisticated or tartish at all. Just over the crown of her head the silvery orb of the moon wobbled. Everything seemed so fragile in the liquid mirror, as if it were just a dream — a dream within a dream. Was this really happening? She touched the scallop shell again and pressed it hard into her scalp so she could feel the teeth — anything to make this moment feel real.

She knew she had to return the shell, and there was not much time, for the tide was coming in faster. She looked away from the cave to the beach. There was only a thin crescent left exposed. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d have to swim back.
But I don’t know how to swim.
And then she laughed out loud. For it seemed so ridiculous — of course she knew how. She just had to dare herself to try.
Soon
, she thought.
Very soon.

She walked back into the cave and carefully replaced the shell on the stick. It was then she spied the notch like a small cubbyhole in the rocks above the three branches. There was something stuffed inside. Reaching up, she took out a tightly rolled oilskin that was about the length of one of the Havana cigars her father sometimes smoked. She untied the string. A note fell out.

A
BLADE OF SUNLIGHT
lay across the narrow bed, and when Lucy turned over, it fell across her face. Her eyelids flinched and she rolled back. But the sun seemed to follow her.

“Lucy! Lucy!” She heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. “My goodness, what a sleepyhead. Do you know what time it is?”

Lucy opened one eye. “No idea.” Then she forced open the other eye. She did not want to be dragged into this day. The night, what had transpired or seemed to have transpired, still stirred somewhere within her like a lingering scent. She wanted to hold on to it. But there was her mother, looking remarkably cheerful compared to last night.

“Darling, it’s almost ten o’clock.” She plopped herself down on the bed, narrowly avoiding sitting on Lucy’s foot, the foot that now seemed as cramped as ever. Had it all been a dream? “We’ve had a very exciting invitation.”

Lucy yawned again. “Yeah?”

“For heaven’s sake don’t say ‘yeah.’ It is so vulgar. Next thing you know, you’ll be using that peculiar word the natives always say for yes.”

“Ayuh!” Lucy laughed.

“That’s it exactly.” Marjorie Snow’s eyebrows leaped high on her forehead like two small minnows. “Never mind. We didn’t bring you here to learn how to speak in that odd brogue of the natives. Don’t you want to know about the invitation?”

Lucy propped herself up on her elbows. “What is it?” She tried to muster some enthusiasm.

“A yachting invitation.”

Lucy sat straight up. “We’re going sailing? On the ocean?”

“I hardly know where else you would do it, dear. But not only that. It is with none other than the Augustus Bellamys.”

“Who are the Bellamys?”

“The Bellamys, upper Fifth Avenue. Very smart people. And they have commissioned a new yacht. The biggest one ever built around here, so Elva Perry says. She brought the message this morning with a dozen fresh eggs. She is quite a dear, Mrs. Perry. Anyhow they are doing what they call a shakedown sail — working out the kinks.”

“And they want us to come?”

“Yes, dear, and you especially, for I think their son will be on board.” Marjorie was beaming. Lucy almost recoiled. The very thought of having to make conversation with another one of these aristocratic young men unnerved her. Small talk presented a veritable minefield of potential disasters. Her capacity to say the wrong thing, the stupid thing, was infinite in such situations. And to have Marjorie present was even worse.

The last thing she wanted to do was to embarrass or fail her mother.

“Oh, darling, I never thought it would all begin so soon. Only the day after tomorrow! I thought we were here unfashionably early, but I guess some of the Bellamys are here early as well because of their boat — pardon me, yacht. Rumor has it, it cost almost one hundred thousand dollars. Can you imagine that?”

Lucy, however, was imagining not dollar bills but the sea — sailing on the wide-open sea.

The sail had to be postponed for two days due to poor weather. But on a bright sunny Saturday morning, the Snows boarded the
Desperate Lark
.

“Ah, here you are!” Augustus Bellamy greeted them heartily as they made their way down the pier at the Heanssler boatyard. “Mrs. Snow! And young Miss Snow. Lucy, I believe? My wife is already on board with her sister and my brother-in-law. And here comes my perpetually late son, Gus.”

Quick introductions were made. Gus Bellamy reached forward to shake hands with Marjorie Snow, whose voice seemed almost to trill as she took his hand in greeting.

“Gus will not actually be on the boat with us, as he is going in the steam launch with young Phineas Heanssler to photograph
Lark
. He’s got the photo bug, you know.” Augustus Bellamy winked.

Thank God for the photo bug
, Lucy thought. She might even be able to think of a decent question to ask about photography. However, her mother’s disappointment was almost palpable.

The breeze was fresh, and within twenty minutes, the yacht, a yawl, was slicing down the eastern way between the Dog Islands. There was the pleasant creak of the mast and a shiver through the shrouds when the yacht caught the wind. As she bit the breeze, the sails puffed and the
Lark
darted ahead like the bird for which she was named. Lucy found it completely exhilarating, but her poor mother was looking quite liverish. Everything seemed to be going perfectly in this shakedown cruise. Indeed the only kink was the one in Marjorie’s plans. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and looked longingly at the stolid little steam launch, uncharmingly named
Bongo
, that bore what she considered precious cargo — Augustus Bellamy III — with his camera set up to photograph this trial sail. The
Bongo
was being expertly piloted by Phineas Heanssler, son of Raymond Heanssler, the renowned Bar Harbor yacht builder.

The plan was to have lunch on one of the many islands that dotted the bay. For her mother’s sake, Lucy decided she would make a real effort with Gus Bellamy. She had thought up at least two or three questions she might ask about photography, for she had recently seen an exhibit of William Henry Jackson’s photographs of Yosemite.

“Bring her in close, Phin,” Raymond Heanssler shouted over the wind. “I’m going to fall off a bit, then run her down toward the first Dog.” As the steam launch swept close, Lucy caught a glimpse of Phineas Heanssler. He cut a memorable figure at the helm of the launch. His rugged profile was illuminated by a sudden blast of sunlight as he spun the wheel with authority and pulled in close to the yawl for the best shot.

“Your son will get some fine pictures, Mr. Bellamy,” said Raymond Heanssler.

“I’m sure he will. Ain’t she something! How she tucks into it. You’ve built me a fine craft, Raymond. And Phineas has a fine touch with that launch.”

“Can’t take too much credit. Phin did most of the design. That boy knows his way with boats and wind, and he surely knows
Lark
and how she fits to the waves.”

Fits to the waves … what a lovely phrase
, Lucy thought. She looked back over her shoulder and caught another glimpse of the young man called Phin as the steam launch laid off to port and crossed their wake.

Mr. Bellamy turned to Marjorie. “And what a sport you are, madam.” He gave her a hearty slap on the back.

“Honestly, Augie, don’t knock the poor woman around. I can tell she’s not feeling all that well. Don’t worry, Mrs. Snow. It takes some getting used to.” Adelaide Bellamy was a calm, handsome woman. She had the grace and confidence that came with generations of privilege and wealth.

“Too bad the reverend couldn’t come,” Mr. Bellamy said. “But it looks like Lucy here was born to it. You like it, do you, Lucy?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I certainly do.”

“It becomes you, it does, my dear. The sea becomes you. Puts the pink in your cheeks and that fine red hair of yours — redder than a boiled lobster! Ha-ha!” he slapped his plump thigh. There was a solid thwack as loud as the crack of the jib when they tacked. Lucy saw her mother wince.

“Boiled lobster! Honestly, Augie!” Mrs. Bellamy laughed. “You have to forgive him, Lucy. He means well. He just lacks a certain
je ne sais quoi
— eloquence?”

“You want to put in at Dog One for luncheon, Mr. Bellamy?” the captain, Cyrus Sprague, asked.

“That would suit me fine. Nice spot for a picnic.”

Lucy saw her mother visibly brighten. She supposed it was not so much the prospect of lunch — for with her greenish pallor, she hardly appeared ready for food — but rather the anticipation of having Augustus Bellamy III within reach.

“Now let’s see,” Adelaide Bellamy said as she stepped from the dinghy onto the beach. “I think, Captain Sprague, that you can direct the crew to put our hampers over there by that boulder. Spread out the picnic rugs and bring along a few of our beach chairs as well. Over there, that looks like a fine place for you and the crew to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Captain Sprague answered.

“No, Adelaide, I want Sprague here with us. We need to discuss what he thinks about that mizzen staysail,” Mr. Bellamy said.

“With us!” Adelaide answered, hardly disguising her shock. “You mean we’re going to discuss mizzen staysails all through lunch? I don’t think so, Augie.”

“Plenty of time to discuss mizzen staysails when we get back, Mr. Bellamy,” Captain Sprague offered diplomatically, and the matter was quickly settled as Lucy thought many matters in the Bellamy family often were. Adelaide Bellamy was a formidable woman.

But again, there were still some kinks, at least from Marjorie Snow’s point of view. For Gus had no interest in eating lunch and immediately scampered off to the wilder end of the island to photograph some sort of bird life. When he did return for a sandwich, he ignored his family and sat with the crew at their separate picnic grounds. Adelaide Bellamy did not seem to notice, or perhaps she did not care.

Lucy sat quietly munching a delicious crabmeat sandwich, and looked out at the seascape. Gulls hung in the sky. There was the chime of a bell buoy in the distance. It all seemed so perfect.

“Young Phineas over there” — Mr. Bellamy nodded in the direction of where the crew sat — “was really responsible for
Desperate Lark
’s design. First one he’s done all on his own, though he’s worked in his father’s yard since the time he was just a tyke. He’s an up-and-comer, that one.”

Mr. Bellamy’s sister-in-law, Isabel, smiled. “It’s so nice when the natives find a vocation. I imagine it keeps them out of trouble.”

“It’s our way of investing in the island, Isabel,” her sister Adelaide offered.

“A helluva investment!” August Bellamy exclaimed.

Adelaide winced. “Don’t bellow, Augie!” she scolded.

The conversation made Lucy cringe. She turned her head in the direction of the picnicking men and caught Phineas looking rather intently at her, but he quickly turned the other way.

When the picnicking was finished, it was decided that Raymond Heanssler would take the ladies back in the steam launch since the breeze was kicking up. They would have to beat back against a headwind, and it would be a quicker trip to Bar Harbor on the launch. Phineas would sail on
Desperate Lark
and check the tension of the starboard shroud in a headwind.

“Might I sail back on
Desperate Lark
rather than the steam launch?” Lucy asked, eager to feel the rock of the waves.

“Why, certainly, my dear,” Mr. Bellamy replied.

And, alas, once again Marjorie Snow’s designs were foiled as Gus decided to accompany the ladies on the steam launch so he could get some final shots of the yacht under sail.

Lucy watched Phineas Heanssler at the wheel from her seat in the cockpit. He tipped his head up frequently to read the wind indicators, small strips of fabric that streamed from the halyards, and occasionally told a crew member to winch in one of the sheets, the lines that controlled the sails. His touch was light on the wheel.

“Would you like to take her, Miss Snow?” he asked, turning to her suddenly.

“Me?” She was amazed to be asked such a question.

“Why not?” Captain Sprague said. “Nothing to it. She’s got a sweet helm on her.”

The vivid, poetic language these men used to speak of yachts and the sea enchanted Lucy, and watching them was even more magical. Phineas seemed to barely touch the wheel; it was as if he were guiding the craft by his thoughts alone. He was not at first glance what one would call handsome, but he was so different looking from any of the young men she had met in New York. He was not what her father called “well barbered.” His reddish blond hair curled down over the frayed collar of his tan shirt. On his belt was a slim holster with a knife. She supposed it must be some equipment for cutting lines on the yacht. His features were irregular and far from perfect. Yet his eyes were a blue the likes of which she had never seen, and his eyebrows were bleached almost white by the sea. But it was his hands that intrigued Lucy. They were long and elegant and might have been those of a pianist rather than a shipbuilder, and yet they were rough. She saw thick calluses on his right hand, and his nails were not only unpolished but showed a bit of grime. He stood steady in his sea boots, which bunched up the cuffs of his trousers to just below his knees.