The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (11 page)

Uncle Victor stared, his face nearly purple. Under his breath he hissed at me, “I thought I told you I expected you to make a good impression! This is an opportunity I will
not
allow you to spoil!”

I picked myself up and smoothed my skirts as well as my composure.

In a much louder, much more pleasant voice, he said, “Lucy dear, come into the parlor and meet Miss Maude.”

I took a tentative step or two toward the parlor. Miss Maude was seated with her back to me. I took in her straight posture and full dark skirts spilling off each side of the chair. Her hair was wound tightly in a bun, this caught up in a no-nonsense hair net. Everything about her spoke of tidiness, restraint, and severity.

Uncle Victor took me by the elbow and propelled me into the parlor. I silently prayed for the magical mist to swirl about me, to perhaps close off the entrance to the room, or better yet, to open a space in the floor through which I could fall. I closed my eyes in the hope that I could conjure it up, hoping against hope that I might feel the pins and needles, that the electricity would course through me and
rescue me as it had so many times before.

But there was nothing to save me, no magical mist to cloud my entrance.

I stood before my uncle on the Persian carpet, my eyes cast down at my feet.

“Miss Maude,” said my uncle, “I'd like you to meet my niece, Lucille.”

He squeezed my arm hard, a signal for me to raise my eyes. I looked up to find Miss Maude turning in her chair, no doubt to size me up.

When she rose to face me, I think I may have gasped.

I recognized those fine high cheekbones immediately, the straight nose, and, of course, the pale, sea-green eyes. My mouth hung open for a second or two before I recovered enough to maintain what I hoped was a normal, nonchalant expression.

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lucille,” she said, extending her hand toward me. Her tone was quite formal and serious, but there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she winked at me.

I took her hand and mumbled a response.

Uncle Victor led me to the sofa as Addie entered with the tea cart.

“Well,” he said, smiling graciously, “shall we get on with it then?”

I
cannot recall much of the conversation that followed—the details and arrangements seemed easily made, my fate quickly and succinctly sealed. I was just about nearly struck dumb, reeling between a feeling of giddy delight at going off with Miss Maude—after all, she had my dear friend Mr. Pugsley—and a feeling of utter dread; who
was
she really? I felt certain she was masquerading as the schoolmistress. And what if she was, in fact, a sea nymph—a siren? What was her purpose in taking me away? Only Addie, dear Addie, spoke up on my behalf, and in a rather forward and outspoken
manner, I might add.

It was somewhere during Miss Maude's description of the required stitchery classes and the daily etiquette drill, all guaranteed to cultivate and refine the likes of me, that Addie piped up. She was clearing the tea, taking, I noticed, quite a bit longer than the task required. She paused, the tray suspended in her hands like a small drawbridge. “If I may be so bold as t' speak, sir,” she began, “perhaps, in light of these plans, I can be of help to ye?”

Uncle Victor stared at her, his irritation blanketed in a tight smile, although it was not lost on me—nor on Addie, as I saw her face pale under his gaze.

“And what might that be, Miss Addelaide?” he asked.

Addie licked her lips and gripped the tray tightly.

“Well, sir, as I must run some errands in the village tomorrow, I thought I might serve as yer messenger, I might.”

“Messenger, Miss Addelaide?” My uncle tapped his foot impatiently.

“Yes, sir … y'see, it seems to me that if Miss Lucy is leavin' us, well, then Barrister Hardy ought to know that our services are no longer required here; isn't that right?”

I almost choked on my scone, covering my mouth with my hand to prevent a spray of dry crumbs from shooting out onto the carpet. Addie's words had a similar effect on Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret—Uncle Victor stretched and twisted his neck up like a giraffe, a red flush creeping from his collar up to his cheeks. Aunt Margaret gulped her tea a bit too quickly, resulting in a series of gurgly coughs and throat clearings. I expected to see the amber liquid bubble right up and spurt through her nose, but if it did, she covered it discreetly with her napkin.

I glanced at Miss Maude, who seemed to be enjoying the whole scene. When she saw me staring, she quickly rearranged her face into a more serious expression.

“B-b-but,” Uncle Victor stuttered, “it isn't as if Lucille will be gone for good, is it, Miss Maude?” He looked to her for some encouragement.

“But of course not, Mr. Simmons,” she said. “There are school holidays several times a year.”

Addie pressed on. “So, as I was sayin', I can't imagine that fer just a few school holidays our services'll be needed here year-round. Perhaps then I should make arrangements t' close up the house?”

“Hogwash!” said Uncle Victor, anger flaring his
nostrils and popping the veins along his thin neck. “Who will tend to the house and grounds? We can't have the place in ruins, now can we?”

“But fer just a few days throughout the year, I can't see—”

“It is not your place to see,” said my uncle acidly. I saw Addie swallow and step back, well aware, I'm sure, that her words would cost her dearly.

I believe Miss Maude noticed this as well, clearing her throat to cut the tension that sizzled in the air between them like electricity.

“Well,” she said, in a calm, reasonable voice, “why don't we arrange for Lucille to return home on the weekends?”

“Yes!” barked Uncle Victor, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. “That was easily fixed, now wasn't it?” His voice had an “I told you so” tone to it.

Addie nodded, apparently relieved at the compromise, as was I, although her idea of sending the two of them off, their obligation fulfilled, was even more appealing. Even so, Miss Maude's suggestion calmed my nerves considerably. I could go off with her to find Mr. Pugsley, discover the reason for her masquerade, if that's what this was, and come back home to Addie. At least that's what I chose to believe. The fact was, I was nearly bursting with curiosity regarding the woman, and the
mystery surrounding her filled my heart and mind with the kind of energy and sense of anticipation that one experiences in a stimulating, exciting life—much as I'd been used to in the richness of day-to-day living with Mother and Father. This feeling of curious expectation had been absent from my life ever since the accident, and up until this moment I hadn't realized how much I missed it. So, I chose to push aside my doubts about the woman—particularly the disturbing likeness I'd seen in our library painting—at least for the time being.

Father's steamer trunk was quickly hauled down from the attic and my belongings were stashed inside. I slipped my precious letter from Aunt Pru, extracted from beneath my mattress, and Father's flute into the bodice of my dress. In the few minutes that Addie and I had alone, we exchanged a number of assurances—I promising to behave in a manner that would have made Mother and Father proud, Addie that she would check the mail daily and come and visit as soon as she could get away. Addie railed on about my being sent off to a school no one had ever seen or heard about, and she promised to, one way or another, speak or write to Barrister Hardy about it. I, for my part, knowing what I did about the woman, urged Addie to wait until I had spent a week or so with “Miss Maude”
before passing judgment. To this Addie reluctantly agreed, but only after carefully writing down the name and location of the school.

Uncle Victor, huffing, puffing, and straining under the weight of the trunk, nevertheless carried it out to Miss Maude's carriage single-handedly. After it was carefully placed on the rack at the back of the wagon, Miss Maude ushered me inside the coach, positioned herself on the seat up front, and took the reins in her hands. A tearful Addie rushed to the window against which I plastered my face (although I did not for a minute believe it was the cultured or refined thing to do), and we exchanged our good-byes. I was not as tearful as Addie, being anxious for the events of my life to move on.

Perhaps Miss Maude sensed my restlessness, for she wasted not a moment. Before I could reconsider (as if I had a choice), she gave the reins a snap, and we were off.

I gazed through the small square window at the sight of my house receding into the distance, Addie standing out in front watching us go. As we rounded the bend of the shore road, all that was visible were the turrets and the upstairs windows. I was suddenly overcome with panic along with an overwhelming sense of sadness.

The house seemed to watch me go, the large
upper-story windows, their shades halfway drawn like sleepy eyelids, gazing after me.

Through tears I leaned forward and blew a kiss toward my precious home. As my breath passed across my palm, it began to sparkle! I watched it whirl into a small glittering cloud, which drifted through the carriage window and up toward the house, expanding and spreading out in all directions. It floated up and around the porch, hovering over windows and slipping around doorways. The glittering cloud swelled and caressed each shingle and gutter, each brick and stone and timber, each nook and cranny, memorizing it for me. Finally it settled around the entire perimeter of the house and slowly, gradually, began to fade as though it had been absorbed into the very soul of the structure itself. I felt suddenly comforted, believing that some essential part of me had permeated the place, forever claiming it as my own.

As we approached the final bend that would separate me from the sight of the only home I had ever known, the ship's bell out by the porch clanged, marking my departure, and the window shades rolled up and back in tandem, blinking their farewell.

N
o sooner were we out of sight of the house than “Miss Maude” slowed the carriage to a stop, hopped off of the driver's seat, came around to the coach, and threw open the door. She stuck her head inside—I noticed that the tight bun was already loosened, and her hair fell freely about her shoulders, in stark contrast to the prim and formal dress she was wearing.

“Lucy, come on out and join me up front,” she said, “where we can talk.”

She offered her hand and helped me hop to the ground. In a matter of seconds I was seated beside
her, sharing the reins, the ocean breeze blowing across my face.

“Miss Maude?” I asked. “Is that your name?”

She glanced my way. “It's a sort of family name—Maude, that is. But most call me Marni. Marni seemed an unlikely name for a proper schoolmistress, don't you think?”

I pondered this for a moment.

“So you're not really a schoolmistress?”

She tipped her head to the side a bit, as if considering the question.

“Not a schoolmistress, exactly,” she said, “but you knew that right along, didn't you?”

I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. I suppose a part of me wanted to believe that the story she'd told my uncle was true. I swallowed several times, trying to find my voice.

“Then if you're not a schoolmistress …”

“Why am I taking you off to school?” she asked, smiling broadly.

Again I nodded.

She stared off straight ahead for a moment before answering, her face growing serious.

“Well,” she began, “it's true I plan on offering you an education, although not quite the education I described to your uncle.”

“So you
are
a teacher then?”

“We are all teachers and all students, Lucy,” she said. “But no, I'm not a teacher in the way that you think. I'm what I like to think of as a philanthropist.”

I had heard that word before, I was sure.

“So … you give away a lot of money?”

She threw back her head and laughed. I felt my face flush with embarrassment, a fact that was not lost on her.

“Oh,” she chuckled, patting my arm, “I know what you mean—and you are quite right. Philanthropists generally use their money to help people. I'm a philanthropist—but it is not
money
I use as a means to an end. Money is something I have very little of—and has been the cause of much grief and trouble in my family.” Her face darkened for a moment, and she fingered the silver locket that hung at her throat. “I use other commodities to assist people—usually lost children with a variety of needs, none of which can be met by money.”

“I thought that was why you took Mr. Pugsley,” I said, “to help me—to help
him.
But I cannot understand how you know when or where you're needed. And where
is
Mr. Pugsley? When will I see him?” I paused to catch my breath. “And if we are not going to a school, then … where
are
we going?”

Her eyes widened at my rush of words, a smile pulling at the edges of her mouth.