The Peculiars (8 page)

Behind Lena, the door opened and a breeze ruffled the back of her hair.

Lena nodded and tried to sort out her thoughts. Questions burned her throat.

“What business could a girl like you have in Scree?” Margaret asked, but her eyes were no longer on Lena’s face. She was looking at a point behind Lena’s head.

Lena felt a presence at her shoulder.

“Miss Mattacascar, you’re headed to Scree? And here I thought you were staying in Knob Knoster with your mother’s cousin.” The voice behind her was familiar and this time oozed charm. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you and Maggie. Why would a young lady such as yourself want to go beyond the borders?”

With one finger, Margaret scrubbed a bit of lipstick from a front tooth and smiled as the marshal pulled up a chair. “Thomas Saltre, I didn’t know you were in town.”

Lena went cold, then hot. He was looking at her with a
question on his face. His eyes fastened to hers. She had to think quickly. “Curiosity, I guess. I’ve heard that there are good business opportunities there and thought that since I’m so close I’d go. I might never have another chance . . .” Her voice faltered, as if it had run out of steam. Sweat prickled beneath her arms.

“Wouldn’t be looking for anyone in particular, would you?” His voice was mild, but underneath, it was as sharp as a razor. A dimple winked on the left side of his mustache. Lena could see why Margaret Flynn was preening.

“Who’d she be looking for in Scree? ’Less it was a husband.” Margaret looked over her shoulder. “Ruby, bring my gentleman friend some tea and a plate of cakes.”

The freckle-faced waitress, who had been hovering within earshot, leapt and scurried back to the kitchen.

“To tell you the truth, my guiding days are over. Used to ride a horse, hike for miles.” She laughed. “I’m citified now. But I can draw maps. Tell you where to go, what to watch out for. But I wouldn’t recommend going. Things are restless in Scree since they sent all those convicts there.”

Lena glanced up. The marshal’s light eyes under the sandy eyebrows were assessing the situation. She was sure of it. She quickly looked down again. The waitress brought another pot of tea and an assortment of iced cakes. The girl looked curiously at Lena now, lingering longer than she needed to pour a cup of tea.

“I can tell you who to talk to, help you out a little.” The
marshal’s voice was gentle now, like the lap of waves in the inner harbor.

“Now, don’t be sending her to Beasley. He’s odd. Rumors are that he—”

“Thank you, Maggie, for your hospitality, but I can’t stay.” The marshal swiftly and effectively cut off Maggie’s words. She shut her mouth with a snap.

“I need to escort this young lady back to her cousin’s domicile. It’s so easy to get lost in unfamiliar territory.” He gallantly stood and came around to pull out Lena’s chair.

Lena hesitated, but it seemed she had no choice.

“I’ll be back later for the cakes and anything else you have.” He winked and dipped his head.

Margaret Flynn beamed. “This is all on the house, honey,” she said to Lena. “Any friend of Thomas’s is a friend of mine. Thomas, you see that she doesn’t go places she shouldn’t.”

He fit his thick hand across the small of Lena’s back and gently nudged her forward. “Oh, I’ll look after her. You can be sure of that.”

The wind from the sea caught Lena’s protests and sent them spinning into the sky as they walked out of the tearoom. Firmly, the marshal steered her out onto the pier.

“I’ve a little proposition that I think will benefit us both, Miss Mattacascar. But it’s best to talk about such things in a place where we can have complete privacy.”

The pier was built of thick cedar planks faded by years
of sun and salt. Wide cracks let her see between the boards as they walked, and her stomach lurched as the shore gave way to a rush of blue. She had never stood over water before. They passed the two fishermen still angled over the side of the pier watching their lines bob in the water. Black cormorants perched like carvings on pilings, and seagulls wheeled overhead. No people strolled the far end of the pier. Alone now with the birds, they walked toward the pier’s end.

The wind stung Lena’s face and made her eyes water. She clutched her shawl more tightly across her shoulders while strands of her black hair whipped out behind.

“I think this is far enough.” The pressure on her back eased. He smoothed his mustache with two fingers. “Miss Mattacascar, I want you to talk with Tobias Beasley. Ask him about being your guide into Scree. It would be a favor to me.” His smile was heartbreaking.

“Why should I? Why should I help you at all?” She dared not look at his eyes, soft now and inviting.

“Because, Miss Mattacascar, it would be beneficial to us both. You have your own reasons for wanting to visit Scree. I need to know what Tobias Beasley is up to. And I believe that it would behoove you to help me. Your father, Saul, is a wanted man, is he not?” He dropped her father’s name casually like a rock into a pool. The surface rippled.

She was trapped. She did want to find the man who had so easily abandoned her and her mother. And she certainly
didn’t want the marshal finding him. Most of all she needed to discover if Peculiars really did exist.

The marshal’s familiarity put her on edge. How old was he anyway? It was difficult to tell, but Lena guessed he was in his mid-twenties. Young to have so much responsibility. “How would this help me?” Lena worked to keep her voice level, thinking that she could never tell him the real nature of her quest.

He smiled his slow, thin smile. “You mean besides distracting me from the case of a missing felon? I’d find you a reliable guide into Scree, Miss Mattacascar. If you still decide to go, I wouldn’t stop you.”

A felon? She had not heard her father called a felon before. Was that worse than a convict? She didn’t know. “What would I have to do?”

“Keep an eye open at Beasley’s house. Your father isn’t the only man I’m interested in. See if Beasley is doing anything illegal.” The marshal took her hand and pressed it between his two strong ones. “Answer a few questions for me. May I call you Lena?”

She nodded.

“You’d be helping your country, Lena, not just me.” His dimple flashed with his smile. “Margaret is right—Beasley is odd. But she doesn’t know the half of it. Beasley is up to something wicked.” He paused and searched her eyes, still firmly clasping her hand in his. “When I have the information our country needs, you’ll be free to go.”

The sun had finally bested the last of the fog. All around her, the sea called in its innumerable voices. She was standing on the edge of the world as she knew it with a man who confused her, one she didn’t know if she could trust. What if he was right? Perhaps Beasley was wicked. She could help, make up for some of the trouble her father had caused and get a reliable guide into Scree in the bargain. That would please the marshal. She looked into his pleading eyes. Her answer seemed as inevitable as the tide.

THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF TOWN, NORTH ALONG THE COAST ROAD.

The directions had been short and simple when the marshal had given them to Lena the previous day.

“You’ll see the house clinging to the cliffs. There’s a long track leading to it, bordered by a row of poplars. I’ll have a coach drop you near the track. It’s best if he thinks you came on your own.”

“But what pretense do I have for showing up uninvited?” Lena had worried her lower lip between her teeth as she and the marshal had stood out on the pier.

“You’re your father’s daughter. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Thomas Saltre had laughed, and only when they had turned and started back to town had he dropped her hand.

Lena had another dilemma as well, not one she chose to share with the marshal. (Even now that she knew his full name, she could not think of him as anything other than
“the marshal.”) Her problem was that she would soon have nowhere to stay. Her room at Miss Brett’s would be taken over shortly by a dowager from the southland. And Lena’s limited resources would not permit a stay at the one hotel in Knoster. She was in a pickle, as her mother used to say.

For some inexplicable reason, she had not mentioned Jimson Quiggley to the marshal. It would be natural for her to pay a call on her companion from the train, especially since he had so kindly offered her assistance, should she need it.

So the next morning she dressed carefully, braiding her long black hair and pinning the braids across the crown of her head. Her other traveling suit was still fresh—a fitted jacket with a skirt of dark blue to match her eyes. It had been made by Nana Crane. The skirt was just long enough to be fashionable but short enough not to get caught in the doors of a coach or train. She selected her one pair of kid gloves, saved for the most special of occasions, whose leather was soft and buttery against her skin. Then, with mixed feelings, Lena set out for Mr. Beasley’s house.

The coast road north beyond Knoster was a seldom-used route. Most people heading to Scree preferred the newer and more direct inland road. Even the train turned inland at Knoster, chugging its way to the northern border crossing one day each week with its burden of convicts, suspected Peculiars, and opportunists. The coast road embraced the rocky shoulders of cliffs that dropped to pocket beaches. A few farms dotted the outskirts of Knoster, where mainly pumpkin and lettuce were
grown, and Lena saw globes of orange in fields of green that tumbled toward the sea. This new world was a riot of color so different from the muted gray of her city. Lena absorbed it all as she leaned forward, peering from the confines of a Concord coach. She had been deeply disappointed to be seated inside the coach rather than riding with the driver on his bench outside. She had read Mark Twain’s account of his overland journey in
Roughing It
—“a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side and leveled an outlook over the worldwide carpet about us for things new and strange to gaze at. It thrills me to think of the life and the wild sense of freedom on those fine overland mornings”—and had been fully prepared to experience the same thing herself, but it was not to be. The marshal had tucked her securely inside the coach and said that she would hear from him soon. She didn’t bother to ask where or how. She was happy to escape his robust mustache and prying eyes.

Even though she was inside the coach, she couldn’t help but feel some of Twain’s “wild sense of freedom” as she rode into a new adventure. But the ride ended quickly, at an imposing row of poplars that bordered a gravel track that led toward the cliff’s edge and the sea below. A few hundred yards down the track was Beasley’s house, and Lena was glad to stretch her legs. She had seen glimpses of the building as they approached—cupolas and towers, sharp roof angles, and the wrought-iron railing of a widow’s walk. But she was not prepared for Mr. Beasley’s house in its entirety.

It clung like a limpet to the edge of the cliff and was tall and gray-shingled with white railings and trim. The architecture had followed no particular style—a cornice here, a bay there, a swooping roofline that looked as if it might take flight. There was an old-fashioned garden that had run amok on the south side of the house and also a small apple orchard, beyond which Lena could see a weathered railing to a staircase that dropped over the edge of the cliff. On a point of the roof, a copper horse, tinted green by the sea air, danced crazily in the wind. Several other brass fixtures that Lena didn’t recognize spun furiously.

She lifted the brass knocker and mentally rehearsed what she would say. But the woman who opened the door never gave her a chance.

“All vendors use the back door.” She was tall and angular and stood with her hands on her jutting hip bones. She glared at Lena.

“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to see Mr. Beasley and Jimson Quiggley.”

The woman looked her up and down. “You’re not here about the bicycles? Or the hair tonic?” She peered around Lena as if she was expecting to see someone with her on the step. “All by yourself, then? What’s your business?” She thrust her neck forward, like a chicken, Lena thought. Next thing she’d be strutting and clucking.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Quiggley, and I have a business question for Mr. Beasley.”

“I’m not sure I should bother the gentlemen if you can’t tell me more—”

“Tell you more what?”

Lena recognized the voice immediately. Jimson’s head appeared behind the housekeeper’s taut gray bun, and his eyes grew wide with surprise or pleasure as he gazed over her shoulder. “Mrs. Pollet, this is my dear friend Miss Lena Mattacascar. I think we should invite her in, don’t you?” His eyes twinkled in the way Lena remembered from the train.

Mrs. Pollet sniffed, but her expression softened when she looked at Jimson. “She could have said so in the first place.” She backed away from the door just enough to give Lena room to slip inside. As she scooted past, Lena realized that the housekeeper was half a head taller than Jimson.

Jimson was around Mrs. Pollet in a flash, taking Lena’s hand in his and pumping it up and down. “How have you been? Are you still staying with your cousin? Did they ever find your purse?”