The Last Treasure (17 page)

January 15, 1813

It appears Simon is an artist! When I scanned the horizon to find him at his usual post, I saw him instead sitting in the grass at the base of the house with a canvas. I can only assume it came with one of the deliveries. I strained my eyes to decipher the subject, but what else might he paint beside the endless sea?

January 16, 1813

Simon wishes to paint me. I was startled at the request, then overjoyed. He sat with me nearly all morning, and though he wishes my portrait to be a somber one, I cannot bear to keep silent long enough for him to accurately paint my mouth—a concession I feel is a worthwhile one, though I am not the artist.

We spoke of you. He is not familiar with you or your history, Papa, which is lovely. Because I have no need to defend or argue, only to enlighten. He said that my husband must grow jealous of you, for I spoke of you far more than I did of Joseph, and I assured him he did not. But truth be told, Papa, I am not sure I have ever considered the prospect.

Simon's eyes are not nearly as black as I'd first believed. Without his beard and perhaps with a trim of all that tangled hair, he could be quite handsome. I asked him to paint me in my favorite ivory dress, as if I am reading in the conservatory, as if I have taken tea in the parlor.

As if I am anywhere but here.

January 17, 1813

Tonight, smoked meat and cheese. Bread. A feast.

A thinking person might fear she'd been delivered her last supper. But I try to do as little of that as possible now, Papa. Think, I mean. Or fear.

January 18, 1813

Heaven today. A walk on the beach. Cold and damp as the sand was, I relieved myself of my shoes to let my
bare soles feel it, to let the glorious chill of it seep into my skin and then deeper into my bones. I have been so sure that my nerves have gone as dead as my heart, and yet feeling surges, alive and primed. A ways up the shore, we arrived at the remains of a sandstone structure and understanding tore through me. Papa, I feel so foolish. Why else had I found a logbook if not because a lighthouse and its keeper once lived here? Walking back, Simon spotted the boat nearing the inlet and hurried me into the grass, pointing me back to the house. I obliged his command without hesitation and took the path quickly. Upstairs, I confined myself, hopeful that the captain of the boat did not witness my freedom. I do not blame Simon for sending me back to my prison. I am not so full of hope that I don't believe my kidnappers would make both of us suffer for our strange new arrangement.

I have endured this lonely life too long now to risk escaping it, Papa.

January 19, 1813

Tonight Simon asked me to join him downstairs for my meal. He spoke of his child, Nicholas, and a woman named Lucy who I assume is the child's mother, though possibly not Simon's bride? I didn't inquire. I barely took in breaths, let alone spoke, fearful of breaking the spell of our curious confessional.

I understand now what it means to be haunted, Papa. To be pursued by ghosts and regrets. How I wish you had shared your anguish in the wake of that terrible mistake with Hamilton. Surely you wish you'd never challenged him to the duel. Was there a moment, however fleeting, before you took aim when you considered retracting? What had transpired to make you take such drastic action? There were terrible things said, things I couldn't bear to believe. Speculation that Hamilton's weapon wouldn't fire but you shot him anyway. I know that couldn't be, Papa. In my heart, I know it. How often I wanted to ask you these things, how often I kept them buried. It would have done your soul—and mine—such good to share the pain and remorse. Why did you not?

I only hope you will when I return.

This mortal coil is too short to waste in silence.

January 20, 1813

A rainy day, and the flat gray sky sinks my spirit, leaving me melancholy.

Simon's words linger with me—and though I know I shouldn't take to heart the opinion of a stranger, especially one aligned with thieves and madmen, I can't help thinking on our lives together, Papa, and a strange worry overwhelms me. Do you suppose we have depended too much on each other? Worse, have I neglected
my obligations as a wife in my need to be a good daughter?

In better news, Simon is making great progress on my portrait—embellished as it is. His efforts have become my singular joy in this world. Fourteen days now and still no news of my release. The boat arrives with supplies and then leaves. There is never news and lately I dread making inquiries. Fears of all sorts plague me. Perhaps they have taken their ransom from you and do not mean to keep their word? Perhaps at any moment Simon will draw a blade or a pistol and put an end to me? Perhaps a storm has detained word of my ransom to you and the silence has left my captors believing you won't meet their demands?
Perhaps
—the most vile of all words.

These worries spin through my thoughts with such fierce speed and frequency that I am seized with coughing fits, as if my lungs are trying to force the fear from my body.

January 21, 1813

More storms. Great, unending sheets of them have blanketed my two windows. I cannot seem to slow this terrible cough. Even Simon looks at me with alarm when we are together, which is nearly all the time now. He assures me a doctor can be brought across the water as easily as a bag of cornmeal and I believe him. I am worth
nothing to my kidnappers dead, though lately I feel sure I'm not worth much to anyone alive either.

Except you, Papa. And, of course, Joseph, though I am not certain we have been the best of soldiers in the battle of grief, he and I. How can a marriage survive, never mind thrive, in the wake of losing a child? I am not certain it can.

January 22, 1813

The boat never came today. Simon assures me the weather is to blame, rough seas, an impending storm. He tells me we have sufficient supplies for several days if the weather does not improve and for reasons I cannot explain, I believe him.

Trust is a curious knot, Papa, but it is all that keeps my fragile soul aloft, so I dare not untangle it, or sink.