Plundered Christmas (6 page)

The older woman, Anne, begged off. “You have enough volunteers with the guests. You don't need my help this year, Margo. That cellar always gives me the creeps anyway.”

The rest went with Margo around the backside of the house, to an old stone stairway. “This cellar,” Margo told Josie, Aimee, and me, “Is all that remains of the original house that burned down in 1813. As a natural cave and lined with natural stone bricks, it's great for storing things from year to year.”

The stairs were narrow, and she recommended that only a couple of us go down, and that we hand up the boxes. Dad had told her about my cave experience in March, she said, so she volunteered me to accompany her into the depths.

When we opened the door, I wished I'd had a sweater with me. Or even a winter coat. It had to be at least twenty degrees colder down there.

“The Christmas boxes,” Margo told me, “are to the right of the door.” She turned on the single overhead light. The lone light bulb did little to dispel the gloom. It was still amazingly dark down there.

Even so, it was easy to spot the Christmas supplies, as they were all stored in matching red and green cartons. I picked up one and handed it to Aimee who stood on the stairs, who then handed it to Margo's daughter. We had moved about half of the boxes out of the cellar when Margo's phone rang. The light from the caller ID was nearly as bright as the overhead bulb.

“Excuse me, Jeanine. I'll be right back.”

As she went outside to take the phone call, I continued to move all the cartons closer to the door out of the cellar. One carton just would not move when I tried to slide it over the floor. I knelt down and tried to figure out why it was stuck.

A brick in the floor was slightly raised and that snagged the bottom of the carton, but the top kept its forward momentum and the carton tipped over, spilling onto the floor.

“Can I help, Mrs. Talbott?” It was Aimee.

“Call me, Jeanine, please, and yes.” I looked over my shoulder at her, but all I could see was the black silhouette of her form from the sun behind her.

“OK.” She then said my name with obvious effort. “Jeanine.”

I chuckled. I could never figure out why simply having children made you appear so much older. She was dating my brother and less than two years separated him and me. But rather than explain all that at this moment, I simply said, “One of these cartons spilled. If you could come over here and help me get everything back inside, I'd appreciate it.”

She immediately came to help. I really liked that about her.

I pointed. “See that brick there? That's the problem.”

She knelt by the box. “That's so odd. I wonder if it's an old ornament beneath the brick here.” She cocked her head. “It's paper of some kind. Do you have a pen or anything with a point, Mrs.—I mean, Jeanine?”

I checked my pockets. Nothing. “No. All in my purse, I'm afraid.”

“Me too,” she said. She looked down at her well-groomed fingernails. “It took me a month to grow these.”

Before I could stop her or suggest that we ask outside, she dug her fingernails into the loose mortar. I heard a nail crack, but the brick moved up just enough. Inch by inch, she pried the offending stone up and out.

I had expected a treetop angel made of paper maché, a construction paper tree with Margo's daughter's name made in grade school, or some long-forgotten popcorn chain. I did not expect a small rolled parchment with a wax seal.

“That's not an ornament.” Aimee handed the item to me.

“Ladies,” Margo said. “May I ask what you're doing? What's the hold up?”

I held up the parchment. “This raised brick caused the last carton to spill. We found this under it.”

“Oh, my.” Margo's mouth fell open as she claimed the find.

 

****

 

Christmas decorating was put on hold immediately. All of Banet Island wanted to see the mysterious parchment and what it contained.

I heard whispered questions.

“Is it the map?” and “How could a visitor find what none of us did?” as well as grateful exultations. They all hoped that I had stumbled upon something, something precious and priceless for the Banet family.

In the grand dining room, we huddled around the ancient paper as Margo used a hot skewer to lift and cut the wax, preserving the seal.

Then William suggested that I, someone with no connections or interest in whatever it was, open the parchment and read it.

Nervously, wearing the white cotton gloves someone loaned me, I unrolled the document. I wasn't sure what I expected to find, or what they expected me to read, but it seemed to surprise everyone. The ornate script was difficult to decipher at first, but then, as I grew accustomed to it, a mysterious woman came to life upon its page.

The year of our Lord, 1720, December

Mary died. My best friend in all the world burned up by the cruelest of fevers. That was all I could turn my mind to when the cell door opened. They had come for her body.

I had seen the baby kicking within her as Mary thrashed in agony. The poor thing did not realize its mother was dying. Nor did it know it would also, without ever seeing the light of day. I hugged my own belly. Oh dear God in heaven! What hope remained for my own infant?

I felt a pang of another kind. What about my other child? Who had he become? Now that I had no hope of life, I longed for him, the one I had thrust aside for my pleasure and adventure. Fate is cruel and leads us in its merry ways simply, I believe, to see how we will dance.

However, it was not the gaoler who opened the door to my confinement. Much to my surprise, it was my husband. I did suppose, even after my transgressions and flights of fancy that he was still my husband.

“Be still,” he told me in a whisper. “Your father and I have arranged for your escape.”

That my father could and would do such a thing, I could believe. Since the death of my mother, he indulged me far too much. But that he and James would work in concert seemed an incredible thing. Father had never cared for James. He often called him weak-willed and lily-livered. At sixteen, I believed not a word of it. On the other hand, perhaps I did give it credence and wanted to defy my father anyway.

James urged me to silence as he afforded my exit. We had to be quick about it. The guards had been paid for only momentary blindness.

I said a quick word of farewell to my longest, truest friend and put my favorite (and only remaining) shawl across her face. Then I followed James up and out to freedom.

In the harbor, a small frigate with my father's colors awaited us. After we boarded and set sail, James let me know the plan.

Through his connections with the governor, he found a small, uninhabited island. Using the monies he had earned as informant, he purchased that same island. There, he explained, we would live in blissful anonymity.

When I began to protest, he told me some details about the layout of our new abode and the way the prevalent currents avoided it. Few people, without intending to visit us, would find us. However, we had a ship.

His plan was wise. The years had grown well on James. Father provided that he would leave us be and circulate various rumors about my disappearance: that I had died, that I had remarried and lived as a sedate housewife, and that I vanished as mysteriously as I had been born.

Father only had two conditions for helping us. One, that we make available various items of interest we, shall we say, stumbled upon in our journeys for him to dispose of however he should wish. Some he would sell to profit by, but knowing how Father collects things which please him, others would find a place in his abode. However, the second condition was more personal. Perhaps he felt it made up for him being first an absent and then a permissive father? He required that I keep a journal, a record of my life and days to be available for him to read if ever he should visit us on the island. If I refused to do so, he would turn me back in to the Jamaican authorities.

As Father had never made such a promise of retribution before, I had no reason to doubt it. However, as James explained, with what we planned for our livelihood, it would not do well to have all the pages in the same place.

This, in evidence, is the first of such pages. I attest it to be as real and as truthful as I ever wrote.

Anne, Queen of Banet Island

 

Beneath her final words, a compass rose was drawn with one arrow pointing north and another southwest. I could only guess what that meant.

 

 

 

 

5

 

No one spoke after I finished reading the letter. I couldn't help notice that this Anne from a much earlier time had a husband whose first name matched my own darling's. How romantic. The connection made me want to know more about her. Why was she in jail? What had she done?

“So,” breathed Aimee. “It was true after all.”

I think the young woman was too excited and forgot herself, forgot who was listening to her.

“What was true, after all, young woman?” Margo demanded. “What do you know and how do you know it?”

Aimee practically melted under the woman's gaze. But she said nothing.

William spoke up. “Can't you see the family resemblance, Auntie? Our cousin came with the Talbotts and Jensens. But she has Banet roots through and through.”

Margo pulled on a pair of reading glasses and peered closely at Aimee. “Joseph Beauregard's daughter? How did you imagine that you would be welcome here?”

“Margo, please,” said Dad, putting an arm around her. “She's our guest as much as yours.”

Margo pulled away and gave my father a look of disgust. “She may be your guest, if you wish, but Aimee Beauregard is no guest of mine.” She marched up to my brother's intended, who looked as if she would rather be anywhere but where she found herself. Our hostess jabbed her forefinger repeatedly into Aimee's chest as if it were a knife. “After what your father did, after what he told the world and threatened to expose, after he promised to turn this island into a media circus with TV crews and glamour seeking archaeologists? After all of that, you have the nerve to turn up here?”

Somewhere in the midst of Margo's tirade, Aimee found a backbone. “But Aunt Margo,” the word “aunt” sounded like an insult from her lips. “My father was obviously right. His research was accurate and his report well documented. Our money and our roots do come from piracy. And the grandmother of all of us at the head of it is Anne Bonny, the pirate queen.”

At the last word, my father's girlfriend wheeled back and slapped Aimee across the face.

We all cringed at the sound. The slap left a visible handprint on the side of Aimee's face.

“Dear Aunt,” Aimee said as she turned her face, revealing the clean, unblemished cheek. “The Lord I serve says I should turn the other. If you wish to slap it as well, please do so.”

They stood there, facing each other for several minutes.

Then Margo spun on her heel and marched imperiously away. “I expect this tree fully decorated when I come back!” she commanded.

Once she had left the house and effectively slammed the front door, I rushed over to Aimee. “Are you OK?”

The moment over, she deflated. “Yes, Mrs. ..." ”

“Jeanine,” I said as softly and warmly as I could.

“Jeanine.” With her left hand, she traced the print on her face.

I imagine it stung quite a bit.
So William wasn't an old boyfriend after all. They were cousins.

Without a word, Frank came to her side. “It wasn't the reunion you imagined, was it, sweetheart?”

“You two talked about this?” I asked.

Frank nodded. “Not too long ago. As we walked to get the tree. We hoped that Margo wouldn't recognize her. The last time she saw Aimee, Aimee was five.” He reached for Aimee's hand and traced the mark with her. “I think it's beautiful,” he said.

I was horrified, but he continued.

“Not how it looks or how it happened, but how my girl handled it all. Isn't she amazing, Jeanine?”

I had to admit that she was. But they also needed time together. So I grabbed a box, found my husband and kids, and began to untangle some lights.

 

****

 

We worked on the tree all day, only stopping to graze on the tea sandwiches, cookies, and fruit set out in the dining room by the cook and her helper. I rather liked not having to cook or think about food until I became hungry.

Finally, around five o' clock, Dad and James looked up and pronounced the tree complete.

“We only need someone to turn it on and make the holiday official,” Justin said.

Since we didn't live there, none of us felt right doing the honors.

I found Charlie out back near the cellar. “Do you have any idea where Margo is?” I asked. “We haven't seen her in hours and the tree is ready.”

He didn't answer me right away. In fact, he seemed rather surprised that I was asking. “No, ma'am, I don't.”

I must have looked disappointed at that news, because he added, “Why don't you let that boy of yours plug in the lights? Nothing better than a child seeing Christmas.”

“But it's not our tree, Charlie. It's not our house. We wouldn't feel right.”

He gave me a nudge back toward the house. “Nonsense, ma'am. You decorated it. You deserve to see it lit first.”

I had an idea. Charlie had lived with these people and worked for them all his life. It was as much his tree as Margo's. “Why don't you do us the honors, Charlie? It's your home, too.”

He looked over his shoulder at the cellar. Then he slowly rotated his head, looking around the island before he looked back at me. “No, ma'am. It's not my home. I may live here, but it's never been home.” He surprised me by reaching for my hand. Then he patted it for a moment. “You're a kind woman, Mrs. Talbott. I wish I knew more of your like in my years.” Then he let go as quick as he had grabbed it. “Now go enjoy the tree and the beginnings of Christmas with that family of yours.”