Hannah: Daughters of the Sea #1 (13 page)

I
T WAS THE EVENING
of the party, and outside, thick fog swirled across the lawn. A dozen maids in dark green uniforms with crisply starched, lace-trimmed aprons passed hors d’oeuvres. “Well, at least it’s cloudy,” Hannah whispered to Ettie. “So you’re not missing any falling stars.”

“What are these?” Ettie said, looking down at the canapés.

“Crabmeat on a biscuit. Very good.”

Ettie took one and Hannah moved on, winding through the crowd of people. There were at least one hundred guests. Many had come for this special evening from as far away as Boston and Newport, Rhode Island. The Hawleys were known for their lavish
parties, lavish at least by Boston standards, and Mrs. Hawley in particular was known for her sense of style. The combination of the Hawleys and the world-famous painter Stannish Whitman Wheeler was unbeatable. Hannah could even detect the glint of envy in some of the women’s eyes. As she moved through the guests with her platter, she picked up scraps of conversation.

“They say it is an extraordinary painting…a departure for him.”

“Who can say anything? Who’s seen it?”

Hannah saw a very elegant lady flip open her fan and use it to shield her mouth while she spoke, but her eyes followed Lila. Despite the Hawleys’ extraordinary attempts to conceal their daughter’s condition and her whereabouts for most of the summer, there was still talk. Daze and Susie had heard it in the village. And several people in the room now were stealing glances at Lila.

Lila looked exquisite in a flowing, pale pink chiffon gown with a cluster of silk flowers at her waist. She also appeared more alert than she had been since
her arrival at Gladrock. But Hannah was nervous. Was there any chance that Lila would see something in the painter’s depiction that would give the merest hint that Hannah had stood in her place? Hannah prayed that somehow she would not be in the room for the unveiling.

She heard the tinkle of a little bell.
Good heavens!
This was happening much faster than Hannah had anticipated. She was in the middle of the room with a platter almost full of canapés. The rules were that servants could not return to the kitchen to replenish a tray until more than three-quarters of it had been consumed. She had half a mind to stuff the rest into her mouth. A hush was settling on the crowd. With Willy’s help, Mr. Marston was rolling out a large stand against which the painting rested, draped in cloth. Horace Hawley now stepped forward with Stannish Whitman Wheeler at his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Gladrock on this very special evening.” He then turned to his daughters. “It is a special evening for Edwina and myself because we have been blessed with three
especially lovely daughters. And although the essence of life is change, growing older and hopefully wiser, there is no one amongst us who has not wished to arrest time. Well, it cannot be done. We cannot slip the mortal chains for a tryst with immortality. But a consummate artist, a genius, can help us imagine such things. There is nothing Edwina and I want more than a long and healthy life for each of our daughters, and yet we also yearn to capture them in the moments that have been precious to us. Tonight they stand before you as elegant young ladies—or almost young ladies.” He was looking at Ettie, who was turning bright red with embarrassment. It was at that moment that Hannah noticed that Ettie was wearing her black rubberized bathing shoes under her long gown.
My Lord in heaven, what is she planning?
Should she tell Florrie, Daze, Perl? But her thought broke off as she saw Mr. Marston and Willy begin to loosen the drape. Mrs. Hawley now stepped forward and pulled a braided cord. The cloth fell.

There was absolute silence as people took in the painting. Ettie, like a luminous spirit, was in the
foreground, behind her Clarice stood solemnly, her honest face trusting and open. But the background of the painting was dense with shadows, and against the vase was the dark figure of Lila, her shoulders flung back, pressing against its blue and white design.

“Very modern,” Hannah heard someone whisper.

“Wheeler is master of chiaroscuro.”

“But it’s so dark…I mean how would one even know that is Lila lurking back there?”

“But it’s riveting, you have to admit.” It was the voice of a young man. “This is what art should be about. Not the obvious, not simple biography. It is as if these children have been caught in the midst of play, a game interrupted, but a game we’ll never understand.” He paused. “At least we outsiders.”

“Yes, I quite agree,” another gentleman said. “Despite Wheeler’s youth it seems as if he has a rather old soul. An understanding beyond his years. There is no one like Wheeler for suggesting the unknowable.”

Hannah inhaled sharply upon hearing this remark. Could these gentlemen ever know how true their words were? There was certainly some sort of
secret at the very center of the painter’s being. Perhaps it was this secret that made him a great painter, but he guarded it as if it were gold. Soon the room was buzzing with conversation. Hannah glanced across the room toward the painter. He stood near the portrait, surrounded by guests. Women in particular pressed to get close to him. She was suddenly filled with a deep and urgent yearning. She drifted closer with her tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“He says he never makes appointments at receptions or parties,” said one young lady.

“I understand he’s booked for the next two years,” a gentleman added. While they talked, their eyes were on the painting, pressing closer to it—everyone’s eyes except for two people in the room. As Hannah turned her head, she saw Lila’s eyes staring straight at her. The vague look had vanished and two glittering blue-green gemstone eyes flickered with an undeniable and profound hatred.

At just that moment, Hannah felt something swish under her skirt. “Ooow!” Her platter fell to the floor. There was a white streak across the room.

“A cat!” someone shrieked.

Hannah was mortified. Surely she would be fired. She dropped to her knees and began gathering up the canapés. Tears were streaming down her face. Mr. Marston was beside her in a minute.

“Don’t worry, dear, not your fault,” he said kindly, but his hands were trembling. “I don’t know how that cat got in here.” He stood up and someone else was bending over her.

“Get out, Hannah, my dear. Get out. You’re ready! Your time has almost come!” a voice whispered in her ear. Hannah looked into the painter’s green eyes. In them she saw worlds she had suspected but never known and the dim shadow of regret for a wildness lost.

“Ready?” she whispered.

“Yes, you are ready.”

“But…but I must leave you,” Hannah said. There was a choking desperation in her voice.

“Forget about me.”

“But you are my—” But the painter was already walking away. His words reverberated through her.
She clutched at the pouch. Ready? Her time had come?

“You’re bleeding!” Susie said a few minutes later, in the kitchen.

Bleeding? What do I care about a little blood?
Hannah thought.

“I’m going to kill that cat!” Mrs. Bletchley hissed. “You stay right here in the kitchen with me, dearie. They don’t need you out there. Susie, get the iodine. I’ll bring over some soapy water.”

Hannah was sitting on a stool and rolling down her bloody stocking. There was a long scratch that ran up her calf. “It’s not that bad, Mrs. Bletchley. Look, it’s stopped bleeding already.”

“Yes, but you don’t want to get an infection. Now you just sit right there. I’m going to get you a cup of tea.”

Mr. Marston came in. “Is everything all right, Hannah? Mr. and Mrs. Hawley are appalled.”
Appalled?
Hannah looked at him expectantly. Would
he call her into his office at Gladrock and quietly say she must go, but give her perhaps a week before she had to leave and a dollar or so? Or would he fire her outright in front of everyone?

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Marston. I should have seen the cat.”

“Nonsense, child! You’ve nothing to apologize for. They are appalled at the cat.”

“What about Lila—shouldn’t she be appalled?” Mrs. Bletchley asked.

“Actually, she was very sorry and sends her apologies,” Mr. Marston said.

“Well, that’s a change.” Mrs. Bletchley pulled down her mouth and raised her eyebrows with a look of astonishment.

“In any case, the cat has been locked in Lila’s room. She even agreed. In that sense I really do see some improvement in her. She was quite docile and took her directly upstairs.”

Docile, my foot!
Hannah thought to herself. She didn’t trust Lila, nor did she trust all the talk she had heard upon Lila’s return of her “improvement.” It was
nothing but a play, a feint. An opening move in combat. Lila was set to destroy her.
And if it is a fight she wants—well, she’ll have it!
But of course Hannah would betray none of this. She would appear as “docile” as her opponent.

“I just don’t want a fuss made,” Hannah said meekly. “Really, please, no fuss. I’m going to get a clean stocking and I’d like to help again. I don’t want to make too much of it.”

Mr. Marston smiled at her warmly. “You’re quite a trouper, Hannah, quite a trouper!”

After she had changed her stockings, Hannah went back into the dining room. “You sure you want to serve that side of the table?” Florrie said. “You’ll have to serve Lila.”

“Exactly!”

But Lila never looked up when Hannah came to her first with the sauce for the swordfish, then with the salad plate, and finally with the dessert, profiteroles on a pond of chocolate sauce. “Care for some more, Miss Lila?” Hannah came around with the sauce boat of chocolate even though she could see that
Lila needed none. Lila did not look up but merely shook her head. Hannah felt the painter’s eyes following her as she continued around the table.

“Hi, Hannah. You all right?” Ettie said, looking up as she came by with the chocolate sauce.

“Hello, Ettie. I don’t think you’re supposed to talk with me, dear. Not at a fancy party like this.”

“I don’t care. I’ll talk with whomever I please.”

Hannah knew she should not encourage any conversation. So she moved on.

After the dinner was finished, the guests went to the second floor of the house where there was a grand ballroom. The orchestra had been tuning up. Hannah had been excused early by Mr. Marston and for this she was glad. She had made her point with Lila and did not need to see her dancing with all the young men of Bar Harbor.

Shortly before midnight the party finally ended. Daze, Susie, and Florrie all had beaux in the village and had planned to go out after the party and meet them. There was quite a bit of courting in the summertime—courtships between servants of one
cottage and another and between servants and natives as well. They often went over to Eagle Lake and had bonfires on the beach or took canoes out for midnight paddles. Hannah had only gone once and did not particularly enjoy it. She found lake water sterile compared with the sea’s. And tonight, exhausted as she was, Hannah was only too happy to undress and crawl into bed. She looked out of the round window. A heavy fog had rolled in.
Might as well be looking into a full milk bottle
, she thought. She turned down the wick of her oil lamp. The second her head hit the pillow, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

S
HE WASN’T SURE WHAT
it was that awakened her. She had no idea what time it was. Then she saw the figure standing at the foot of her bed, as still as a statue. Her eyes open, but glazed. The cat in her arms, perfectly still. Like pieces of a puzzle coming together, the bizarre reality began to assemble itself. Lila had sleepwalked up here. The cat was almost limp in her arms, and appeared to be in some sort of hypnotic state, its eyes half shut and glazed. Hannah remembered the instructions. She must take Lila by the hand and lead her back to her room. Then she must go and wake the Hawleys.

Ever so slowly, Hannah slipped out of bed. She quickly grabbed for her nightgown on the bedpost.
Then she walked up to Lila. Without saying a word she took her hand and began to lead her from the room. They descended the first set of the back stairs, and then the next to the family bedrooms. She was about to lead Lila through the back stairway door to the corridor when Lila wrenched her hand away.

Lila’s eyes were wild. She was scratching at Hannah’s face and the cat suddenly came to life and pounced on her back. Hannah could feel the claws digging into her shoulders, close to the neck of the nightgown. She looked down and saw the two huge paws clasped onto her collarbones and scratching at the string from which the pouch hung.

Hannah fell to the floor but quickly staggered to her feet. She was gasping for breath and with horror realized that the cat had shifted and was no longer on her back, but hanging by the pouch strings from her neck. She looked down. There was something so freakish about the cat’s paws. Then she realized it was the six toes Roseanne had told her about. Jade was using them as deftly as fingers,
pulling the string of the pouch and those that closed the neckline of the nightgown tighter and tighter. Lila stood aside, her eyes feverish. Her youth had vanished, replaced by a fury of purpose. Her face was a contorted mask of absolute determination and every trace of humanity was gone. At first it sounded like a purr coming from Lila’s throat but then she heard the words—“Freckles, does she have freckles?”

The strings of Hannah’s pouch were cutting into her throat, and she was gasping for air. A rent had been torn in the pouch and a radiant mist flowed from it, as if an artery to her heart had been sliced open. Only it was not blood, it was her soul.
No! No!
The word screeched in her head.

The world was turning black. She could not let this happen! She would not! Hannah felt anger growing in her, and then the power she sensed within herself surged, building like an immense wave. She hurled herself forward, slamming into a wall. There was a terrible screech from the cat, then a crash as they tumbled down the stairs together.

“Stop! Stop!” Ettie was at the top of the stairs, but Hannah was no longer listening. She had to get away. She tore out of the door that led into the kitchen and then onto the back porch. Lila ran after her. Hannah looked over her shoulder. She could outrun her, but it was hard to see Jade in the thick fog. “Go back, Ettie!” Hannah called. “Get help!”

Hannah had not thought where to run. The fog had enveloped everything in an impenetrable, gauzy whiteness. A thick quiet had descended. It seemed more day than night and no land features were discernible in the shifting miasma of vapors, stirring as soundlessly as ghosts. But suddenly Hannah could hear everything from the slight rustle of a blown leaf to the movement of a blade of grass or the quiver of sea lavender as water from the incoming tide licked its stems. She trembled and touched her chest. The pouch was gone, and yet she thought,
I am here! My time has come!

Hannah reached the lavender rock, washed by a high tide. The bottom of her nightgown was drenched, and she could hear the click of the cat’s claws on the
rocks just behind her. She stretched her arms forward and arced into the air as a distinct sound came to her—the shattering of porcelain.

The next thing she knew, Hannah was beneath the surface of the water. It was deep. Her feet did not touch the bottom. But that did not matter.

She felt the swirl of the water around her. It was not cold, and it cushioned and caressed her. She stretched out and began to swim across the cove, sometimes diving deeply and swimming beneath the surface. She could hold her breath for long minutes. Despite the dark, she saw around her a shifting landscape of swaying tawny sea grapes on amber fronds, and all sorts of rocks. She circled Perl’s dory, which was tethered to a mooring block. Her eyes picked out the antennae of a lobster protruding from the slot in a rock.

The longer she swam, the more Hannah knew that she had not merely jumped into a cove, she had become part of a floating world of music. The water had its tones. Some were dark and amber, some pure gold.

And just as there was a spectrum of color and hues that amazed her eyes, there was a range of rhythms caused by currents and eddies. She quickly learned how to swim through these currents, adjusting the power of her strokes to the pressure of the water that flowed around her. She was astonished by the bursts of speed she could achieve. It was not simply her arms that were carrying her through the water—there was an incredible power coming from her legs and yet her legs no longer felt the same.

She swam toward the surface and rolled onto her back. A sudden wind had sprung up and scraped off the fog, and she could see that the black sky was powdered with stars. She lifted her legs from the water, blinked. There was a scintillation in the moonlight. She blinked, then blinked again. Glistening teardrop shapes spangled the darkness. “Those aren’t legs,” Hannah whispered. “It’s a tail. A tail like the one breaking out of the wave painted on the vase.”

Impossible!
But no, not at all! Her season had
come. The world that was hinted at in the painting on the vase had been realized. She had in fact passed through the portal, had crossed over, and had found not a diabolical spirit, not a tormenting wraith, and not a demon familiar, but a part of her natural history, her heritage, her family. And even if she was right now the only member of that family, she felt whole at last, complete.

Oh, they were all right
, she wanted to shout.
I am perfectly unsuitable! I am not an orphan, I am a daughter of the sea!
Hannah knew that she was home at last. A sound scratched the night, a child crying somewhere. It tugged on her, but it seemed so far away that it was easy not to heed it, and she felt a wonderful current pulling on her. She dived back beneath the surface. The sound stopped. Hannah swam deeper to find the pulse of the current.

A small figure raced across the lawn and through the meadow at the edge of the sea, crying, “She’s drowned! She’s drowned! She’s gone! Gone forever!”
People were now running from the house in their nightclothes.

Mr. Marston, barefoot, his dressing gown flying out behind him, arrived, followed by Mr. Hawley and several servants.

“What’s happened, child?” Mr. Marston asked.

“What in God’s name is going on?” another voice cried.

“Hannah! Hannah!” Ettie sobbed, and between the sobs she was hiccuping.

“What happened to Hannah?” Mr. Hawley asked. “Lila, why are you scratched? You’re bleeding.”

“She chased her!” Ettie finally roared. “Lila chased Hannah into the sea. Lila and Jade.” Lila stood there, unmoving.

“Lila?” Mr. Hawley said, walking slowly toward his daughter. “Lila, my dear, is this true?”

“Hannah killed Jade,” Lila said, and pointed to a clump of blood-soaked sea lavender where Jade was sprawled. The cat’s head was twisted at an odd angle to its body. One side was bashed in and there was a mangled mash of fur and protruding bone.

“That’s a lie,” Ettie screamed. “Hannah did no such thing.” Ettie looked at her older sister. “I killed Jade!”

Lila exploded and hurled herself across the grass, knocking down her sister. Her hand was reaching for a rock when Mr. Marston ran up and dragged her off Ettie.

“Take her away,” Mr. Hawley said. He was shaking as he gathered Ettie into his arms.

“Horace! Horace! What is going on here?” Edwina Hawley had just arrived and was looking frantically from her husband to her eldest daughter, who was held by Mr. Marston and Willy. But Lila was not struggling. She looked at Ettie, whose lip was bleeding, and calmly said, “When you killed Jade, you killed me. I am dead because of you.”

“I want Hannah! I want Hannah!” It was all Ettie could say through her bleeding lips.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mr. Hawley said. But his words hardly belied his agitation. His eyes were fixed on Ettie’s bloody mouth. He tore off the cuff of his nightshirt and began trying to staunch the flow of blood. His face had turned pale beneath his summer tan,
and he turned to Perl. “Perl, get Captain Eaton and some of the others and go out in the motor launch and search for Hannah. We’ll find her, dear.” Then he shouted, “Get me a damn cloth, this child is bleeding!”

“She said she could swim,” Ettie whimpered.