Norton, Andre - Novel 23 Read online

  "Where is Millie? She was to unpack for you— "

  "I do not need her—" Saranna began.

  "Nonsense, of course you need her. She's a lazy slut. Don't you let her beg off from any task she's set. You must keep an eye on every one of them or they'll shirk their work."

  Honora advanced into the room without invitation, seated herself on a chair from which Saranna snatched her bonnet with only seconds to spare. Now the older girl came directly to the point:

  "You are in full mourning, so I know you do not wish to meet any company. Unfortunately I must entertain for my father tonight—some of his business acquaintances. Therefore Millie will bring you a tray here where you will not be disturbed."

  Or disturb you, Saranna added to herself. Honora was in half mourning, but it appeared she did not believe in seclusion for herself. Though Saranna had no intention of quarreling with the suggestion. She had no wish now, or perhaps ever, to be included in the social life of this house.

  "My father has returned early," Honora continued. "He desires you to join him in the library." Again her tone underlined delicate astonishment that anyone would want Saranna's company.

  If Honora had come merely for the purpose of delivering that message, she showed no signs of departing now that her errand was completed. With a little smile which never reached her eyes she continued to study the younger girl.

  "My father was most amazed to receive that letter from Mrs. Stowell—"

  Saranna almost started in surprise. Mother had written to Jethro? But why had she not told Saranna? She could guess her mother's purpose—that she must have realized the seriousness of her illness and lowered her pride to ask for her daughter what she would not for herself.

  "He had had no contact with his family for years,” Honora continued and then paused.

  Saranna made no comment.

  "However, he was very concerned when he heard, after such a length of time, of his father's death and of the unhappy straits in which you were left as a result of that."

  Saranna stared directly back. "We were not in dire want, Honora. Until my mother became ill we earned our living."

  "As village dressmakers—"

  Saranna kept tight control of her temper. It was never what Honora said, it was the insinuating way she said it.

  "I helped her as much as I could. But I was also studying. My mother had arranged for me to be a pupil teacher this summer at the Female Academy in Boston. Miss Seeton had accepted me."

  Honora looked thoughtful. "So you are bookish, Saranna. But a Bluestocking does not interest the gentlemen. However, in your case—" She allowed her voice to drawl away and Saranna grasped very well her meaning. For a portionless poor girl the question of any gentleman's interest would hardly arise.

  "Now," Honora continued with that sprightliness which set Saranna's teeth on edge, "it is best not to keep one gentleman—my father—waiting." She spoke as if Saranna had been the one causing the delay. "Down the stair, the second door to the right. You had better hurry if you wish to avoid meeting an early guest.”

  Saranna hurried. Not, she assured herself, because of what Honora had said, but because she honestly wanted to get past this first interview with her unknown brother. She had heard so little of Jethro (though her mother had never set the blame for the long estrangement on him) that she did not know what to expect

  She paused for a second before knocking at the library door, her hand up to make sure her prim cap was tidily in place. Then she entered in answer to a kind of growl to which the thickness of the door reduced a low-pitched, masculine voice.

  2

  CHUN-INITIAL DIFFICULTIES

  So this was Jethro! Somehow, though Saranna had always known he was even older than her mother, she had still pictured him in her mind as one of her own generation. But this man was gray-haired, thickened at the waist, seeming as old, if not older, than her father as she last remembered him. Though Captain Stowell had been youthfully vigorous on the day they had waved the Spindrift out of the harbor for the last time.

  "Well, m'dear, with that fox-brush hair, there's no denying you're all Stowell."

  An odd greeting, but delivered with a warmth Saranna had not expected to hear in this house. That this could be an awkward meeting, she well understood. Being strangers who shared a kinship of blood but no family memories in common, how could either look for instant acceptance? And the Jethro she had half-resentfully held in her mind was not one to welcome an unknown half sister except grudgingly, as a duty he could not escape.

  Now he advanced from the hearth and caught both of her hands before she was aware.

  "Feel off course, don't you, m’dear? Like as not you fear to fetch up against a reef somewhere, needing a chart to steer you right. That's as it would be. I can't deny that your mother's letter came as a surprise. She said she had written without you knowing. Only wish she had written sooner. But I could tell she was a proud woman, not one to ask anything for herself. Am I right in reading her so?"

  Saranna nodded. His seaman's terms recalled her father's blunt heartiness. The brisk, no false sympathy way in which he spoke touched her more deeply than the conventional condolences she had had to face since her loss. She swallowed, fighting tears.

  Jethro accepted the past, acknowledged its claims, but then dismissed the years behind as unimportant now.

  As he stood so close to her she noticed that, though his hair had a powdering of gray, its original shade must have been red, perhaps even as bright as her own. And the eyes regarding her so kindly from beneath his bushy brows were green like hers.

  "Pity is," he continued, "we won't have long to get to know each other. I'm new to the coffee trade, you see. Means I have to learn it—up from ship's boy to captain all over again. So I'm off to Brazil on the Tern, sailing the day after tomorrow. Have to be down there a good while—visiting the plantations, getting to know the exporters—all the rest of it May be gone near a year.

  "But Honora will look after you, and when I'm home again—then we'll have a good amount of time. Your mother said you were a book lover, that you want to be a teacher. There's no need now to earn your living, mind you that, m'dear. But if you want learning, then you've a right to it. Most females don't care. But I learned early, Saranna, all people are not alike. Had to learn the hard way, from the Captain himself."

  Jethro glanced from her to the small fire banishing the spring chill from the high-ceilinged room. Though there was no shadow of expression on his face, Saranna thought he did not see those low-burning flames, but rather memories.

  "Sorry you don't want to dine with us, m'dear. But Honora understands. Hard to meet a lot of new people all at once. Honora's good at understanding. She'll be fine company for you. Feed you up—make things easy. You just trust Honora."

  Saranna suppressed the answer she would have liked to give. Trust Honora was the last thing she was inclined to do. Honora had already proven her deviousness in allowing her father to believe that Saranna had requested to be excused from dining with the household tonight. And Saranna was certain of one thing, the Honora Jethro knew did not in the least resemble the Honora she had met. There were no protests she could now make against being left in his daughter's care which would not seem both rude and ungracious to this man whom she was beginning to like very much.

  She was in the midst of expressing her thanks (which he waved impatiently aside), when there was a rap at the door and Honora appeared.

  "Father—Judge Crawford has arrived. He is most anxious to have a few words with you before our other guests come. Saranna, my dear, I know you wish to escape notice. Millie will show you the back way to your room."

  Saranna felt as if one of those brisk sea winds she had met on the trip to Baltimore had swept her up and whirled her away. Without knowing just how it happened, she was back in her chamber with Millie lighting a lamp on the small table. She became aware that the maid watched her shyly when she thought Saranna did not notice her. And, though she kne
w very little about the girl, Saranna decided that Honora's estimate of the servant was prejudiced. Millie moved with grace and a dignity all her own about the small tasks she had taken on without any orders.

  "Miss, you want your dinnah soon?”

  Saranna was suddenly aware that she was hungry. The cold lunch they had had on board ship just before docking seemed very far away now. And there had been no tea (such as her mother and she had always shared during an afternoon) offered her.

  “Yes, please."

  When Millie had slipped out, Saranna unhooked her tight basque. Since she was going to dine alone in her chamber she might as well be comfortable. And she saw a tall copper jug by the washbasin on the commode. By the time Millie returned with a tray, she had washed and was wearing the matinee morning saque her mother had made for her as a birthday gift. It was not mourning, but she felt closer to her dear lost one with it about her, her fingers touching gently the frills her mother had so patiently and skillfully embroidered, than she did in any show of black.

  Millie set down a tray which looked far too heavy to be carried up the stairs by her slender arms. The maid raised the covers of the dishes displaying a cup of soup, lobster patties, a roasted pigeon, a boiled potato, hot bread, and some fruit. Then she poured a cup of coffee from a small silver pot, proffered cream and sugar.

  "We have coffee. Miss. The Master, he likes for us to serve it—"

  Saranna tasted the new beverage gingerly. She had heard tales of its bitterness and strength, prophecies that it would never replace the genteel tea, the satisfying chocolate. But she decided that, with the cream and sugar added, it was palatable. And if Jethro wished his household to make popular the product in which he dealt, then he had a right to see that it was served under his roof to all comers.

  "My, that there do be a pretty coat, Miss—“ Millie was gazing with open admiration at Saranna's loose saque.

  Saranna's lips quivered in spite of her firm resolve to keep her inner feelings strictly to herself.

  "My—my mother made it—for my birthday—" She was sorry that her voice sounded so unsteady. Taking tight rein on her emotions, the girl added more firmly, "She was noted for her embroidery. I learned a little. But I can't do as well as she could—ever."

  "So pretty—" Millie repeated. "Wish I could learn me how to make such a pretty thing."

  "No reason why not," Saranna said. "I have the patterns —and I know the stitches—I could show you." She did not know why she had made that offer so impulsively. But once made, she knew that this was another way in which she could lose herself in the present, without the nagging sorrow of the past, the uncertainty of the future ever in her mind.

  Jethro had been cordial, more than she had dared to expect. But he would not be here. And she would be left to Honora’s whims, which she did not in the least trust.

  "I don't know, Miss. Miss Honora, she don't like us to do what she ain't told us. But she says I'm your maid, maybe so I could learn me a little. Then she won't—" Millie stopped short and Saranna was sure she saw a shadow of fear on the girl's childish face.

  "She won't what?"

  "She won't send me back there. She gets mad sometimes, Miss Honora does. Then she say I'm clumsy and lazy. After she talks about sending me back there—"

  "Where is there?"

  "The Manor—upriver. Tiensin they calls it—the white folks. Old Cap'n Whaley, he come back from China and he build it. Brought some queer folks with him to make it the way he wanted it. Then, when it was all done, she send those queer people back where they belong. But there's a haunt there—shut up behind the hedges. Jasper, he saw it once— cause it comes out sometimes. She—" Millie's eyes turned toward the door as if she feared someone might suddenly appear there, and Saranna guessed that "she" referred to the girl's mistress, "don't go there much. She thought it was all goin' to be hers, but Master Richard, he died before the Old Cap'n, and now little Miss, she got it. Mrs. Parton, she lives there with little Miss, and the hands what works the fields. Me—I don't want to go upriver!"

  Saranna knew that it was the worst of manners to listen to servant gossip. But she needed to know all she could discover about the family into which she had been so unexpectedly dropped.

  "Who is little Miss?" she asked bluntly, waving aside the haunt story which was, of course, sheer superstition.

  "Miss Damaris—she be Master Richard's own daughter by his first wife. Old Cap'n say she is real Whaley; Miss Honora ain't. So he make will, give everything to her. Miss Honora plenty mad. Poor Miss Damaris—she—they say as how she ain't always right in the head. How can she be right —a child livin' where a haunt can get at her?"

  Millie shivered. Her lips parted as if she would say something else, then she turned and fairly ran from the room. Perhaps, Saranna thought, she was regretting her indiscreet speech and believed her words might be repeated to Honora. But the maid had left Saranna with a small mystery to muse over while she ate.

  When she finished the last of her dinner, she arose from the small table to go to the near window. Double drapery and curtains there shut out the night. Saranna drew them aside to form a chink through which she could watch the gathering darkness.

  A carriage drove up to the door below. She caught a foreshortened glimpse of a man's silk hat, the lacy evening hood of the lady assisted from the carriage—more guests.

  The carriage pulled on to join the other vehicles in the street. Through the closed window, Saranna could hear the muted hum of the city, see lanterns and lamps marking the buildings beyond. She remembered her short interview with Jethro. He had done all the talking—his spate of words had swept her along. She could not recall now any pause which had given her a chance to speak. It was as if what she might have said was of no importance.

  She had not been really aware of that at the time—only now. He had dismissed her so easily into Honora’s care, Saranna frowned. At least he had mentioned Mother's plan for her as a teacher, and seemed to think that her desire for an education was praiseworthy. But—could she depend upon his help? Suppose he would agree to allow her to return to Miss Seeton's this summer, give her funds enough to pay her way? Surely he might be eager to be rid of his responsibility for her. Would she have a chance to suggest that before he left? The time was so short.

  Now that Saranna had time to examine his words without his presence, she was a little chilled. He had seemed so friendly in his manner. But he would soon be gone, leaving her to Honora. And of Honora's lack of friendliness, she had no doubt at all.

  What was she going to do? All her pride stirred. To stay on here as Honora's pensioner, that would be like being a prisoner. If she could just see Jethro once more, this time have him listen to her — Impatience possessed Saranna. She wanted nothing more than to confront her brother tonight, get this matter settled. And yet she knew she had no chance at all.

  Though the bed was soft, the covers above her warm, she could not get to sleep. Plans formed in her mind, only to be discarded as useless. She was caught in the trap of her age and sex—a young female had to listen to her guardian, which in truth, Jethro now was. She had no resource but to obey his wishes. The realization of that aroused again the deep anger within her.

  At last, she fell into an uneasy sleep and a dream. Before her loomed a hedge, untrimmed or curbed, which rose far above her head. The green of the leaves on those close-packed bushes which formed the barrier was dark, close to black. Yet there was no somberness or menace in its shadowy length. Instead, Saranna was filled with an excitement which made her heart beat faster; an eagerness to see what lay beyond moved her. She raised both hands to catch at branches, force them aside so she could see—what? She did not know, save that it was wonderful and waited just for her.

  From that dream she aroused to see an edge of sunlight around the close-drawn drapery of her window. Millie stood beside her bed holding a small tray on which was a covered cup.

  "Miss," her soft voice drove away the last of that dream, "Miss
Honora, she says can you come see her soon—"

  "Why?" asked Saranna before she thought. Naturally, Honora would not tell the maid.

  "She mighty pleased about somethin', Miss Honora is,” was Millie's oblique answer. By her tone, Saranna could guess that what pleased Honora might not be entirely acceptable to others. But that she had already deduced.

  There was little choice she could make in clothing. But she dared to wear a white chemisette with fine muslin inner sleeves, instead of the dead black in which she had traveled. Her gown was so shabby that she needed the extra sense of support that vestee would give her. However, she scrapped her hair well back under the black cap she had so hurriedly fashioned, hoping that might balance her small defiance of true mourning dress.

  She drank the chocolate Millie had brought in the cup and glanced once more in the mirror. Primish looks, very proper, perhaps she should also assume, she thought bitterly, a subdued expression suitable for a family pensioner? No I They must take her as she really was. She intended to play no meek role merely to gain anyone's good graces.

  "Saranna, good morning—" Honora still wore her favorite half mourning, but this time her matinee robe and skirt were of lavender, bearing creamy white lace ruffling and banding. She was settled before a silver coffee service as hostess in the breakfast room to which Saranna had been directed.

  Jethro was eating a slice of ham with the gusto of one who thoroughly enjoyed the excellency of the dishes set before him.

  "Good morning,” he swallowed visibly before he echoed his daughter's greeting. "What will you have, m'dear? The ham is choice. We have to thank Honora for that—comes in from Tiensin, the Whaley Manor upriver. Potatoes, biscuits—" He did not look directly at Saranna, rather enumerated the contents of the various serving dishes. Then, again not waiting for any word of preference from Saranna, he carved a plate of ham, spooned the potatoes he had recommended, together with a square of light bread, and handed the plate to the hovering serving maid who placed it before the girl.