Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (3 page)

 
          
 
"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.

 
          
 
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 knew 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.