The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (15 page)

22

P
ru, Marni, and Walter headed to the stable with Annie and Georgie traipsing behind. While they unhitched the donkeys, I walked toward the cottage. I could feel the high spirits overflowing from within the capt'n's house as soon as I opened the door. In the front room stood a seamstress's form holding a gown of ivory-colored crochet lace, its intricate design of flowers and delicate vines flowing over a layer of silk chiffon. It had a high neck and long slender sleeves, the skirt gliding over the hips and pooling beautifully against the floor.

“Crocheted most of it meself,” Patsy mumbled through a mouthful of pins held between her lips. She squinted critically at her creation, tucking here, smoothing there.

“It's gorgeous,” I gasped, trying to imagine practical Addie adorned like a queen.

“Brigit's in the kitchen, peelin' taters—whyn't ye wash up an' give 'er a hand?”

“I will. . . .” I dashed to the bathroom, hesitating before the sink, its faucet menacing me. Instead I grabbed a damp, rather mildewed wash rag and did a quick scrub of my face, arms, and hands, then rushed to my room to change my dirty clothes. I reached for a clean pair of overalls, then reconsidered. Instead, I grabbed a simple blue cotton frock with a long belted tie that accentuated my waist. I pulled it over my head and fumbled with the row of annoyingly small black buttons that ran up the front of the dress. Glancing in the mirror, I tried to see myself as Brigit would, and frowned. My hair was an unruly fright of dark red curls. I had a scratch across my right cheek, and the sleeves of my dress were a bit short, giving my arms a gangly appearance. There was a perpetual sense of impatience and haste about me, as though I was in a rush to get someplace—which I was. I forced myself to stand perfectly still, to exude the kind of soft, ladylike air that Brigit had—and for a fleeting instant I caught a glimpse of someone else, someone I thought Walter might prefer.

But who cared what Walter preferred? I tossed my hair from my face, captured it in a loose ribbon, and started downstairs. Miss Oonagh and Old Peader sat in the parlor, Old Peader's head thrown back against the chair, his mouth agape, snoring lightly. “Catchin' flies,” Oonagh cackled. She was tamping her tobacco, preparing for a smoke. “Better get yer arse in that kitchen,” she said, striking her match, then sucking the flame into the bowl of the pipe. “B'fore that blondie steals yer beau!”

“Ha,” I said. “Walter's not my beau!”

“Ha!” she responded, her face shrouded in smoke. Annoyed, I made my way past her, toward the kitchen. Before I even stepped into the doorway I heard the sound of laughter. Something about it gave me a peculiar feeling in my gut, and I hesitated for a second before I ventured in.

I stopped short, undetected. Brigit had a half-peeled potato in one hand. Her other hand lay on Seamus's arm, a wide smile across her pretty face. His back was to me. “Watch this, Brig,” he said, expertly juggling two, then three potatoes in the air.

“Oh, Seamus,” she crooned, “ye know how t' make a girl laugh, ye do!” I must have moved, or perhaps they heard my sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, look—Lucy's here!” Brigit gushed. Was the blush on her cheeks in response to Seamus's attention, or to me catching them at . . . what?

Seamus spun around, and without missing a beat grabbed another potato, adding it to his juggling feat. “Fer you, Lucy—four potatoes!” I forced a smile, but my face felt stiff, Miss Oonagh's words resonating in my head . . .
B'fore that blondie steals yer beau!
I stared at the circling spuds, which he was only able to keep in the air for a second before three of them thunked to the floor. Patsy entered just as the trio of taters rolled across her path.

“What in the good Lord's name are ye's doin'?” she asked, bending down and scooping up the dented spuds. I shrugged, the same question poised on my lips. Patsy wiped the potatoes on her apron. “Been hearin' an awful lotta whisperin' and laughin' in here this afternoon, I 'ave.”

I turned on my heel.

“Lucy!” Brigit called. “Wait! Where're ye goin?”

I ignored her, stomping back into the parlor, nearly colliding with Walter. “What's got you all fired up?” he asked. I scowled.

Miss Oonagh chuckled, sending puffs of smoke out of her mouth like an ancient dragon. “When the cat's away, the mice'll play. . . .”

Walter raised an eyebrow and Miss Oonagh pointed her pipe toward the kitchen. Brigit and Seamus emerged, grinning sheepishly, Patsy's voice following them. “Enough o' yer nonsense!” she yelled. Brigit giggled, but stopped abruptly when she caught sight of Walter.

Hungry as I was, I dashed out of the parlor and up the stairs to my room. Behind my closed door I could hear their muffled voices—Walter's agitated and edgy, and Seamus's laughing. “Hahaha,” I whispered bitterly. “Very funny.” I picked up Seamus's bird carving that had been gracing my bureau. I had the urge to toss it out the window, but something stopped me. I flopped on my bed, fingering his gift, staring at the ceiling. Tried to refocus on the treasure, or the wedding—anything but Seamus and Brigit flirting their way through the afternoon. With a sigh I pulled the box of clues from beneath my bed, sprawled across the quilt, and spread the papers before me. Our family tree, Pru's careful notes outlining what we knew thus far. The deck of cards, minus the queen of spades. The sight of the
Buccaneer
's manifest Seamus had torn from the harbormaster's book taunted me. Just as he'd shown off for me, he'd been showing off for Brigit. And then to have the pilfered prize reveal nothing . . .

I unfolded the ragged-edged pages, once again scanning down the familiar script.

But wait. One name caught my eye. I sat up.
Dirk Coogan.
Wasn't Dirk the name of the fellow who had built the vault for Molly? What had she called him?
A lazy lug.

But if he'd been a crew member on the
Buccaneer
, wasn't it possible he'd somehow suspected what Molly had been transporting, and what she'd be locking away in that vault? And there was something else.

With trembling hands I whipped out the pages Capt'n Adams had snipped from his log. My eyes devoured his careful notes. There it was! Our crew listed by first and family names—
Quaide Coogan
!

I sat back, grasping at the import of this. Finally, the connection between Quaide and the treasure! It had begun with this Dirk, who must certainly have been an ancestor of Quaide's—his grandfather, I'd guess.

A knock on the door interrupted my musing. I quickly stowed the box back under the bed. I couldn't wait to tell Pru what I'd discovered! “Who is it?” I called.

“Addie—heard me girl was out o' sorts. Thought I'd bring ye a little supper.”

My stomach let out a huge, hollow growl. “Come in.”

Addie pushed open the door and placed a tray on the foot of my bed. “Brigit didn't say a word at table. Picked at 'er food. You two start off on the wrong foot?”

“No,” I said, unconvincingly. “She's really nice . . .” The word
but
dangled silently in the air.

“Waited all these years t' meet ye, she has. I know ye both, and each of ye's so much t' offer the other. Be a shame if ye let some silly boys come between ye's. Told her the same thing, I did.”

I looked up. Addie's face was a mix of concern and sadness. Here it was, just days before her wedding, and she was worrying about her two bridesmaids getting along. And instead of helping with the wedding plans my head was filled with thoughts of the Coogans, Quaide and Dirk.

I stood and threw my arms around her. “You're right, Addie. I think Brigit and I could be friends.” The words rang false to me, but the way Addie's face lit up reminded me I had to try.

“Grand!” Addie exclaimed. “That's me girl! Patsy's finished dresses fer the two o' ye's. And one fer Annie too!”

The next days were filled with preparations—the flowers and the food, the cake, the cooking and cleaning—all of this difficult for me, trying to avoid any manner of running water. I did my best to ignore the taps that gushed as I passed, but slowing to a dribble as others approached. The threat was always present, casting a shadow of foreboding on what should have been a most happy time. That and the certainty that Quaide would surely surface again. Pru and I were sure of it.

A canopy was raised in the yard, to keep the inevitable shower from wilting the ladies' finery. The pastor of the local parish, Father Lynch, grudgingly agreed to conduct the nuptials out on the farm instead of in town at the church. Lovely as the church was, Addie felt that a wedding should take place where all God's creation could rejoice—exchanging vows to a chorus of birdsong and crickets, sheep dotting the meadow in the distance, dragonflies darting between the guests.

Brigit and I forged a truce of sorts by avoiding any mention of Seamus and Walter. Instead we spoke of nosegays and tablecloths, petticoats, and hair ribbons. All the while thoughts of pirates and the curse swirled inside my head. Walter, Seamus, Grady, and Georgie hauled fifty chairs from the church hall for the wedding guests, and laid out sawhorses topped with wooden planks to serve as banquet tables. As they set them beneath the tent we covered them with linen, lace, and thick, pale pink bows.

I tried to get Annie to help, but she was out of sorts, cranky, and given to sudden bouts of tears—Nessa had not been seen since we'd returned from the Burren. Annie sulked around Prudence, holding her responsible for the fairy's desertion. “You scared her off with the jar,” Annie moaned.

My aunt remained pleasant and patient. “Remember, the jar was
your
idea,” she reminded her, chuckling. “But not to worry. The fairy'll be back—when she has something of value to share.”

This did little to allay Annie's fears. And with all the hustle and bustle she wasn't getting the attention she saw as her due, so she demanded it in other ways—dropping a glass goblet, traipsing through the mud and tracking it into the house. After a good scolding from Patsy that brought an onslaught of tears, Annie took another tack—hiding here and there in the house, refusing to come when summoned. Walter and Georgie would spend a good part of an hour searching the house and yard, until Miss Oonagh would fire up her pipe, bellow her cheeks, and blow fancy smoke rings—once a zigzag of hazy steps that led them to find Annie huddled under the stairwell, another time a puff that transformed into the shape of a bed. Sure enough, they discovered Annie sprawled beneath Marni's bed, covered in dust balls. Old Peader laughed silently, his shoulders rising and falling. “Let's ship Oonagh off to the circus,” he croaked. “Or the carnival side show. Never seen such a talent fer smoke breathin'!”

As I laughed the old woman reached out and grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Don't ferget this,” she hissed. She held me with her silvery eyes, inhaled deeply, and formed her lips like the spout of a teakettle. She exhaled in a long, smooth breath, the smoke tumbling into the air between us. Georgie stood gaping alongside me as we watched the vaporous design take shape. It was the same peculiar pattern that she'd drawn on the hearthstone back on Clare Island, the ring with rays protruding like a lopsided sunburst.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Told ye before. That's where ye'll find what yer lookin' fer.”

“But . . . ,” I began, struggling to grasp her meaning.

“An' beware o' the Straw Boys!”

Old Peader rolled his eyes. “Now she's back on that again. . . .”

Frustrated, I retreated to the kitchen to see what had to be done next. As I entered I saw Marni placing a parcel on the back stoop. Rory, the black-haired boy, and his red-haired friend, Paddy, reached for the brown-wrapped package. Hungrily they untied the string, revealing the food stashed inside. “Let me get you a jug of cider,” Marni said. As she turned, they spotted me, and the waifs started to run off. “Wait,” Marni called. “You needn't be afraid of Lucy. We're all friends here.”

Rory, clearly the leader, shrugged, deciding that the prospect of a jug of cider was too good to pass up. Marni went to the cupboard and I walked to the door. The rest of the children were hiding behind a large outcropping of rock at the side of the pasture. When I stepped outside they scattered like a flock of birds. “Here you are,” Marni said. “Come back tomorrow and I'll have something more for you.” In an instant the two ran off. Rory whistled loudly, signaling the rest of the group.

“Hunger is a terrible thing,” Marni said.

“How did they find us?”

“Likely followed us from the Burren. I saw them scavenging through the compost pile the other day and called them over.”

I felt a lump form in my throat at her kindness—the same kindness she'd shown to Walter, Annie, Georgie, and me. Before I could say a word I heard Annie's voice from the parlor—her tone so different from the whining of the last few days.

“I'm going to wear it to the wedding!” she announced. “Over my dress! I'll look like a princess!”

Old Peader muttered something about it not being suitable for a little girl. Oonagh piped in, her voice carrying above the rest. “Some siren's missin' 'er cape,” she shrilled. “Like a duck outta water, stuck on land!”

Marni and I bolted toward the door, and there was Annie, the sealskin cape thrown carelessly over her shoulders, its heft dragging on the ground. She pranced about, chin held high. “I'll be the best flower girl in the whole wedding,” she boasted, grabbing the edge of the cape with one hand, swirling it in an arc around her. To my chagrin Grady walked in and stopped short, his mouth agape.

Marni's face became a mask of steel, the color draining from her lips. We all stared at her, all the old doubts about her affinity to the water resurfacing. Hadn't Walter's father called her a “sea nymph,” a “witch of the sea”? All of those instances of her swimming in the deep, with a strength and stamina not quite human.