The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (9 page)

With scarcely a thought, I swung one leg over the ledge and searched with my foot for the top of the net. Encumbered and greatly exasperated by my full skirts, I hastily grabbed the hem with one hand and shamelessly shoved it into the waistband of my wide white bloomers.

In this way (much like a stuffed pillow), I made my way down the net, the scratchy rope chafing against my palms, my neat black button shoes slipping and sliding along the ropes. I had hardly a thought as to the safety of this escapade, for only the clanging of the mail-wagon bell spurred me on. As I neared the bottom, I felt the pins and needles of the mist at my feet and, chancing a look down, watched in amazement as the vapors actually curled back the wisteria vine, clearing a way for me. I watched the green curlicue tendrils loosen, uncoil, and creep aside as I placed my feet lower and lower.

Finally I jumped to the ground and ran toward the mailbox—a peculiar spectacle, I'm sure, what
with my full skirts still jammed into my bloomers.

I waved at the postman, and, just as I hoped, he finally refrained from that infernal bell ringing long enough to jam a slim stack of letters into the box and gape at the strange sight of me barreling down the hill. Flustered and embarrassed, I'm sure, he left the mail, lifted the red flag, averted his eyes, cracked the reins across the back of the old horse, and was on his way.

As I flew toward the mailbox, I got a bit ahead of myself and stumbled. I tumbled forward and skidded across the dirt on my belly, leaving two great green streaks across my knees and a nasty tear along the seam of my bloomers. I was aware of my knees bleeding, but I scrambled to my feet and ran on.

Finally, out of breath and sweating like the dickens, I reached the box. I hurled myself at it, flipped the flag back into its resting position, and flung the little door open.

A stack of letters sat there waiting for me. I snatched them from the box and, still panting, began shuffling through them with shaking hands. An envelope from the village grocer, one from our family doctor, several more addressed to Uncle Victor from people I'd never heard of.

I slipped each of these to the bottom of the pile,
revealing the next and the next letter. As I fingered the last letter of the stack, I saw a shadow—a long, thin shadow—fall across the ground before me. I spun about to find myself face-to-face with my uncle.

I gasped and put my hands behind my back, shielding the precious letters from him.

“What do you think you're doing out here?” he snarled. His eyes were narrowed, and his expression was even more sinister than usual, what with the black-and-blue eye and his swollen, misshapen nose. He made a grab for my arm, and I quickly backed up, throwing him off balance. This infuriated him further.

“Give me those letters, missy,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “It's bad enough you've disobeyed me by coming out of doors against my wishes. Don't make it worse by interfering with my mail, do you hear me?”

He made another lunge for me, and again I stepped back.

“I'm not interested in your mail,” I said flatly. “I'm looking for my own mail. Mine or Mother's, which is none of your concern!” I was aware that I sounded most rebellious, and my shock at my own defiance seemed only to feed my behavior further. I was quite panicked, if the truth be known, and nearly out of control. Recklessly, I pressed on, Uncle
Victor's fury only adding to my insubordination. I set my jaw tightly and nodded at him with a
hmph
of determination.

“Why, you little hussy,” he said, glaring at my bloomers, spitting the words. “How dare you leave the house like this? What are you trying to do—ruin my good name carrying on like a common street wench?”

I felt the color rise to my cheeks, and my shame further fueled my agitation. I hastily untucked my skirts, avoiding my uncle's eyes. He used that opportunity to fall upon me, wrenching the letters from my hands.

“No!” I shrieked and, shocking him as much as myself, I threw myself upon him, knocking the two of us to the ground.

Dear Lord, I knew at that point that I was in too deep to back off. Despite the fact that I realized no good would come from it, and that I could not hope to win out, I engaged him in a wrestling match, the two of us tumbling about trying to gain possession of those letters.

I stood finally, panting and gasping, filthy from head to toe, my hair wild and hanging in my eyes, staring at the stack of letters in his hands.

“Oh my good Lord, what are ye doin', Mr. Simmons?”

Addie grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to her. “What is goin' on here, for heaven's sake?” She looked wild, Addie did, staring openmouthed at the spectacle of the two of us. Behind her Aunt Margaret was lumbering across the lawn, huffing and puffing like a chubby locomotive, her skirts hiked up in her plump hands.

“What? What … happened?” Aunt Margaret gasped, out of breath, her eyes rolling about like those of a frightened cow.

Uncle Victor swiped at his hair, smoothing it back across his forehead.

“Disobeying me, she was!” he said. “Caught her running around out here in her
bloomers
!”

Aunt Margaret looked as though she might just faint dead away. I stuck out my chin even farther and stubbornly fought the tears that stung the backs of my eyes.

“'Tis true?” Addie asked, her voice more wrapped in that brogue than perhaps I'd ever heard it.

“No,” I said, “it was just that I wanted to get the
mail
!” My words rushed out in a flurry, the last word,
mail
, stretching into an extended sort of wail. I refused to lower my eyes though, refused to give in to him. The tears rolled down my cheeks, but I checked the sob rising in my throat, gulping
and clenching my teeth together tightly, holding my chin stubbornly high.

“In her
bloomers
?” asked Aunt Margaret, fanning her face, which by then was as flushed as mine. “Why wasn't she properly dressed?”

“Ask
her
!” shouted my uncle, who was himself red as a lobster; this along with the black and blue gave his angry face a purple cast, which made me think that perhaps he might just explode. It was an optimistic thought.

I shrugged in answer to their eyes, all three pairs of them fixed on me, Addie's gaze a mix of worry and confoundment, Aunt Margaret's one of shock and something between fear and confusion, Uncle Victor's full of pure fury.

“And not only
that
!” boomed Victor, waving the letters above his head. “She knocked me to the ground and tried to steal my mail!”

Aunt Margaret inhaled through pursed lips, shaking her head back and forth, staring at me as though I were some sort of circus freak or dangerous insect.

“I did not want to take
his
mail!” I shouted. “It was my
own
mail I was interested in. Mine and Mother's! And he won't even let me see what he's got there in his hands! He's the one who's stealing, I tell you!”

“Lucy,” said Addie, “lower yer voice, lass.” She pulled me in close and whispered into my hair. “This won't get ye anywhere, I tell ye. Calm down now. Hush!”

My heart was thundering, preventing me from breathing normally.

“Perhaps, if I may, Mr. Simmons …,” Addie began. “Seems to me that Miss Lucy just wanted t' look fer a letter from 'er auntie. That's understandable, sir, after all.”

Uncle Victor's nostrils flared. “I'll thank you to stay out of this, Miss Clancy. And furthermore, if you don't start controlling your young charge here, I will see to it that that old coot of a lawyer has you dismissed and replaced by someone who can do the job expected of her! Imagine, a young lady, if I can go so far as to even
refer
to her as such, disobeying, running about indecently, and behaving like a hellion! That hardly reflects well on the job you're doing here, now does it? If you don't watch yourself, you'll be out on your heel, I promise you!”

“He's got my letter,” I insisted. “I
know
he's got the letter.”

“I'll hear none of it,” said Aunt Margaret in a trembling voice, dabbing at her eyes with her hankie. “Of course he doesn't have any silly letter!”

Uncle Victor slipped the envelopes into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Now, take her inside, and get her cleaned up.”

Addie nodded and took me by the arm, rather roughly, I might add. I suppose I couldn't blame her, being that my behavior had gotten her into trouble as well. I'm sure she was as shocked as any of them by my words and actions. I was quite shocked myself.

By the time we were halfway up the hill, my bravado had disappeared, and my anger had given way to despair. My defeat left me weak in the knees and sick to my stomach. I had ruined any chance of getting around Uncle Victor, had alienated Aunt Margaret, who, while not being especially kind to me, had always been at least somewhat sympathetic. I'd even put Addie, my sole supporter, in danger.

Back in the house Addie, tight-lipped and silent, ran a bath for me, the crease between her brows deepening.

Only Mr. Pugsley seemed his usual self, not at all put off by my dreadful appearance. He scurried around me, nudging me with his wet, flat nose; scouring me with rough kisses; wiggling his small curlicue tail.

I closed my eyes and lay back on my bed, rubbing his wriggling little body. A moment later
I heard Uncle Victor climbing the stairs. I sat bolt upright, my body suddenly electric. I could feel his anger prickle the air around me.

He stood in my doorway, a large brown burlap sack in his hands.

“The dog goes,” he said. “I warned you, and you didn't pay me any heed.”

“No!” I mumbled, tears choking off my words. I grabbed Mr. Pugsley and held him close. “No, you can't take my dog, I won't let you!”

He stalked toward me, the sack open in his hands.

“Put him in the bag,” he said, his eyes black, still, and flat as a starless sky.

Trembling, I stood and stepped toward him, holding my small friend out in both hands.

“That's right,” said Uncle Victor, “you'd do best to obey me this time.”

I held the dog at arm's length, my bottom lip quivering, heart pounding. Uncle Victor thrust the bag toward me, holding it wide open, a gaping mouth ready to devour my little friend. I saw Addie out of the corner of my eye, standing on the stair, her hand covering her mouth, eyes shocked and shimmering.

I stepped forward and moved Mr. Pugsley closer to the bag. “It must be done,” said Uncle Victor.
“The sooner you learn I don't make idle threats, the better!” He was warming to his hideous task, I could see. He chuckled and went on. “He won't survive the sea this time, I tell you!”

I threw myself forward and thrust Mr. Pugsley as far away from me as I could.

“Run, Mr. Pugsley,” I screamed, “run!”

My uncle struck me across the face with the back of his hand. Addie screamed as I fell against the bed, but I sprang immediately back to my feet. My cheek stung wickedly, but my heart was dancing, for what I saw was the curlicue tail of my dear Mr. Pugsley bobbing rapidly down the stairs. Uncle Victor bolted after him, but not quickly enough. I rushed to the landing, grasping the doorframe with white knuckles. “Help,” I whispered desperately, “please!”

The front door groaned and creaked and yawned, and with something quite like a sneeze, blew open.

The last thing I saw was Mr. Pugsley's backside hightailing it down the porch steps and across the yard, Father's ship's bell sounding his triumphant escape. He was safe, for now anyway. I backed up to the window, my eyes scouring the landscape for some sign of him.

I don't know how long I held my breath, but
when, in the distance, I saw the woman emerge from the bushes, I finally exhaled.

I watched, with a curious mix of relief and regret, as she scooped Mr. Pugsley up in her arms and disappeared back into the place, wherever it was, that she had come from.

I
t was a miserable day—the rest of the morning and afternoon following the incident at the mailbox and Mr. Pugsley's narrow escape—the worst day I'd had since the accident, without a doubt. It was true, I took some comfort in the hot bath Addie had drawn for me, the sudsy water providing some solace for my scraped knees and callused hands, the warmth of the water caressing my aching muscles. But even a soothing bath did little to ease my sorrow at losing Mr. Pugsley—the only consolation being that he was with the woman rather than drowned at the bottom of the sea in a
mean burlap sack.

And as if losing Mr. Pugsley wasn't enough, there was Addie to contend with. After getting past her initial outrage and sympathy at my being struck by Uncle Victor, her mood slid into one of cool silence. I watched her anger and resentment coming my way via doors and drawers being shut a bit too powerfully, bed linens snapped and whipped into place with more gusto than required. When I spoke to her, her responses were clipped, and her eyes flashed darkly away from mine.

This was more than I could bear, and I spent much of the morning and the remainder of the afternoon trailing her from room to room like a frightened puppy, asking pointless questions, offering unnecessary help.