The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (5 page)

I turned back and paused for a moment.

“Thank you,” I answered, but to whom or to what, I had no idea.

B
ack in my room, I laid my bedclothes along the bottom of the door to block even the smallest wink of lamplight from escaping into the hallway. The house was still, but I could not risk being discovered, should Uncle Victor be struggling with sleeplessness after the disturbance in the library.

I sat on the floor, my back against the door, ears attuned to any hint of movement in the house. My lamp flickered beside me as I, with trembling fingers, untied the bundle. The papers fell into my lap like thin, dry leaves. I slipped the first letter out of
its envelope and unfolded the ivory sheets of parchment, revealing Aunt Pru's ornate, practiced script.

June 13, 1903

My Dearest Johanna,

I do pray this letter finds you well and happy! And that your dear seaman continues to thrive on shore! I often, during the evening and around our campfire, imagine the three of you snug in that marvelous mansion of yours facing the wild Atlantic, enjoying the quiet life of art and leisure you so desired!

I continually marvel at how the two of us could be so different and still love each other so! And, sadly, it vexes me that my dear brother continues to deny the validity of my quest. I can say, with some certainty, that I have uncovered important clues to our family's past—on the green isle of Ireland and in Australia. In fact, I now have evidence that a deed exists, in grandfather's name, for land near a remote town called Stuart, near Alice Springs. I intend to make my way there and continue to untangle the mystery of the family curse that my brother so staunchly refuses to acknowledge. God knows, I pray he is right!

I write you from the middle of the continent, continuing with Dr. Washburn's expedition. We
have become quite friendly with the aboriginal people of the area, and these primitive folk guide us as to where we can find our next collection of cave paintings. It is quite a thrill to carry crude torches into these dark caverns and to view the ancient and often savage paintings that tell the story of these people. I use my artistic gift to sketch these depictions into my journal. We engage in many stimulating conversations about the possible meaning of this primitive art, while at the same time, I continue to piece together important information about the missing years our grandfather spent here on the continent down under.

So, dear sister-in-law, if you do not receive word from me in the coming months, do not fret—we are far from civilized culture and anyplace where a letter might be posted! I pray this finds its way to you, sent via the kindness of a rancher trekking through the region.

Love to my dear niece and to your handsome sailor!

—Pru

PS—As I always beg—despite Edward's pooh-poohing—please see that my brother takes care and caution in everything he does—particularly on the water. His safety is my greatest concern.

I grasped the letter so tightly that the edges curled in my sweaty hands.

Family curse? Their grandfather's—my great-grandfather's—missing years in Australia? And the postscript …

My eyes stung with tears of sadness and anger. Yes, Aunt Pru, how right you were to worry! In the time it took for her words to travel across the wide oceans and into my hands, her beloved brother and sister-in-law had perished.

I frantically shuffled through the rest of the stack, skimming, scanning.

Postcards from Boston and Newport from family, friends, and neighbors, filled with meaningless pleasantries. Thank-you notes from acquaintances, invitations to tea. A letter, five years old, from Aunt Pru, sent from Rome, describing the Colosseum and catacombs. Nothing else—just the terrible omen of a family curse come to pass!

Might it be that Pru was dead as well? I myself had only narrowly escaped an untimely end out there with Mother and Father. Perhaps I would be the next to suffer the Simmons family curse. I dropped my head to my knees and closed my eyes. A dark, thrilling thought crept into my brain. Maybe the curse would claim Uncle Victor. I shook
the notion from my mind, ashamed of myself.

It was all too much to take in, following the mysterious incident in the library, the drama on the shore. I gathered the letters strewn about me and tied them back in a bundle, except for the only one that mattered. That one I slipped safely beneath the layers of my mattress. The remaining stack I shoved into the deep recesses of my wardrobe chest.

What to do … what to do?

My mind raced wildly. But my eyes were heavy.

Tomorrow, I thought, as I snuffed the wick of the lamp and fell into bed, tomorrow perhaps I would make some sense of it.

The following days blurred together, one running over into the next, each day filled with anxious thoughts and musings. But one summer day was different—we had visitors. At the sound of the ship's bell tolling, Uncle Victor ran to the window and peered out. “Who in the devil …,” he began. “Addie! Addie, go and find out what they want!”

I followed her to the door. My school chum Emma Pratt stood there dressed in her Sunday best, staring down at her fine button shoes, a bunch of daisies clenched in her fist. Mrs. Pratt wore a pitying expression and held out a blueberry pie in her white-gloved hands. She nodded toward me
but looked at Addie. “It was high time we came to offer our condolences,” she said. “Isn't it, Emma?” She nudged Emma with her elbow. “Emma!”

Emma didn't look up. “I'm very sorry about your … um … loss,” she mumbled. Mrs. Pratt nodded and smiled in a pinched way. “Given the fact that there wasn't really a funeral, or calling hours, we waited until things were, well, settled....”

I didn't know what to say, but Addie saved me. “Well, isn't that sweet of ye; now come in, come in.” She gestured in an expansive way, took the pie from Mrs. Pratt, and led them inside.

“Mr. Simmons, sir,” she called, “Mrs. Pratt and her lovely Emma have come to pay their respects. I'll put on the tea.” She turned. “Lucy, show our guests to the parlor now, would ye?”

We sat awkwardly on the settee. Emma looked at me, finally. “So, what's it like to be a
real
live orphan?” she blurted.

“Emma!” Mrs. Pratt exclaimed. “What a thing to say!”

I felt my face color. At that moment Aunt Margaret sashayed in, followed by Uncle Victor.

“Afternoon,” Aunt Margaret crooned. I noticed she'd changed her dress and was wearing a lot of jewelry. Mother's jewelry! My mouth dropped open. Uncle Victor crossed his arms and rocked
back on his heels.

“I'm Victor Simmons, and this is my wife, Margaret. We are in charge of this place now that my dear brother and his lovely wife have tragically passed on. Still in mourning, aren't we, Margaret?”

Victor's smile and the sparkle in his eyes told a different story. Aunt Margaret, dabbing at her eyes, was, to me at least, equally unconvincing.

Just as Addie started through the door with the silver tea service, Victor stepped in front of her, stopping her short.

“Given that the household is still grieving,” he said, “I do suggest we postpone this little visit. You understand, of course.”

Mrs. Pratt's long white face turned pink as she stood and took Emma by the hand.

“I promise we shall not be disturbing you again,” she said. “Come along, Emma!”

Emma looked over her shoulder at me, trying, I imagined, to get one last look at a real orphan.

“Toodle-oo!” Aunt Margaret cried as the door closed behind them. “Appreciate the pie!”

I could imagine them walking down the front path, the look of distaste pulling at the corners of their mouths.

“We'll have no more uninvited guests snooping around here,” Victor said. “Next time, Addie, you
will turn them away! Now, out of my sight!”

Addie turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

Still, I was relieved. I couldn't bear to have any more of my friends meet my aunt and uncle, to see what shameful, ungracious people they were.

As if sensing my relief, Uncle Victor shifted his beady eyes in my direction. “What are you standing there gaping at? There are chores to be done, missy! You'll thank me someday for teaching you the value of hard work! Now get on with the dusting!”

I turned toward the broom closet, grateful for anything to get me away from him.

“And don't forgot the bathroom!” he shouted.

I took the feather duster from its hook and headed for the dining room, lost in my own musings. It was as though, in lieu of family and school chums, the house had become my companion, my ally. I leaned my forehead against the cool oak paneling in the hall and closed my eyes. “I need you,” I whispered, my breath leaving a moist circle on the polished surface. I paused, listening for the quiet breathing of the house, feeling for that sense of life that had pulsed through it on that peculiar night. Stranger still, I believed the house actually
responded
to my recognition of its energy, its soul. My cheek tingled,
and even behind my closed lids I was dazzled by starbursts of color. I was suddenly infused with a giddy burst of energy, a high-spirited sense of fun.

I bounded off, the feather duster a magical wand in my hand. I waved it with a flourish along the wainscoting in the dining room and up along the edge of the tall built-in corner cupboard. I sang as I worked,
“A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee!”
But the top ledge of the cabinetry was beyond my reach. As I stretched on tiptoes in an attempt to complete the chore, the ledge began to glow—not a wild, garish shine, mind you, rather a low-luster, good-natured sort of twinkle, and the cabinet bent over, ever so slightly in a courtly bow, just enough to meet the ruffled tips of my feathery wand. I waved the duster in a salute, giggled, and moved on.

With unbounded energy I fairly skipped to the basement to retrieve the bucket and scrub brush, star water, and sponge, and lugged them back upstairs. Suddenly, the prospect of scrubbing the tile floor and shining the brass fixtures of the lavatory seemed like an adventure. I ran the water, assembled my supplies, and began with the sink. In seconds it was gleaming. Then I approached the deep claw-footed tub. But I'd left the metal bucket and the scrub brush on the opposite side of the room. I turned and stepped back for them,
anticipating the strain of hauling the heavy pail of sloshing suds a step or two nearer. I hoisted the bucket in one hand, turned, then stopped short. The tub itself moved, its claw feet flexing slightly, inching along the black-and-white checkerboard floor until it snuggled up beside me.

I set the bucket down and grinned. As if to remind me of the task at hand, the smooth rolled edge of the tub curled over in a gentle curtsy-like dip—an invitation for me to do what I'd set out to do. I scrubbed, staring in amazement as the suds sparkled and swirled, encircling the inner perimeter, erasing the last trace of Uncle Victor's dull beige tub ring. The sparkling mist swirled into a neat funnel shape, and the small glittering tornado spun down the drain, leaving the tub gleaming. Then, just as I knew it would, the tub tiptoed back to its place. I applauded, and once more it curtsied.

Still marveling, I carried the bucket and scrub brush back to the cellar and set them down next to Father's “chart room.” Here he'd built a platform on which he'd set his prized trophy from his last sea vessel—an enormous nautical wheel. I climbed up, grasped the knobs at the end of each rung just as Father'd once done. I closed my eyes and turned the wheel, imagining …

“Set our sights for Australia!” I shouted, feeling
anything was possible, spinning the wheel to the right. We'd sail the Eastern seaboard, past the islands, around Cape Horn, and across the South Pacific—eventually we'd hit Australia, wouldn't we?

I sang out,
“A la dee dah dah, a lah dee dah dee....”
I could swear, as I sang, that the lilting tone of Father's flute accompanied my song. “Raise the sails full-tilt!” I commanded.

The squeal of the winch and the flap of imaginary canvas against the wind bolstered my bravado. “We have a job to do! Find Miss Prudence Simmons and banish the
evil
Victor from his illustrious brother's estate!” One hand on the wheel, I raised the other in a defiant fist and shook it in the air.

Then, in a flash, a viselike grip on my wrist yanked me, not only from my imaginary drama at sea, but clear off the platform.

H
is face was beet red, his temples throbbing. He spoke to me through clenched teeth, lips curled back in a snarl.

“This is how you avoid your chores, is it, missy? Mocking the duty your aunt and I perform here, disrespecting us with your … your … theatrics?”