The Valentine Legacy (36 page)

“There are several small stores,” Jessie said, pointing just down the dirt road. “A Mr. Gaskill owned the one my parents always used when I was a little girl.”

Mr. Gaskill still owned the small store that carried everything from thimbles to scrub boards, just as Jessie had told them, and even more, including buckets of oats for horses to new netting for the fishermen. “Why,” the grizzled old man said, beaming at Jessie, “ain't ye Jessie Warfield? Aye, that's who ye be. Sech a cute little girl ye was back then. Yer father all right?”

Other Ocracokers came into the store, and Jessie was soon surrounded by the Burruses, the Jacksons, the Fulchers, and the Styrons. All exclaimed at how grown-up she was. The locals eyed the English contingent, saying little directly to them.

Mr. Gaskill's son, Timmy, hired out himself and his wagon to transport them and their goods to Oliver Warfield's house, which lay on the ocean side of Ocracoke.

Theodore Burrus, a young man near Jessie's age, nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw the Duchess and Maggie. He merely waved to Jessie, who had already garbed herself in practical trousers, boots, and a flannel shirt and leather vest. Jessie believed, though, that it was Spears who got the most unabashed stares. He looked like a royal personage leading his minions. His deportment was impeccable as were his black wool trousers and coat. His cravat was stark white. He looked magnificent.

One Ocracoker started to bow, then recovered himself in time and spat on the ground beside him.

“I'd rather have a horse,” Marcus said, eyeing the back of the wagon where all of them would pile in, like a collection of bundles.

“We will figure it out,” Spears said as his master climbed into the back of the wagon and took Charles from Sampson.

“It's only a mile to my papa's house,” Jessie said, as James whipped up the sweet-tempered gray mare, who was nearly groaning at pulling the weighty wagon. “On the ocean side. He wanted to be a bit separated from the rest of the villagers. It was his retreat from the world, he would say.” As they drove outside Ocracoke Village, the dirt road narrowed considerably. There'd been a recent rainstorm, for there were deep ruts filled with water.

“Now I feel as if I've been transported to another world,” the Duchess said, breathing in the salty air, looking up at the sea gulls, the terns, and the oystercatchers. “What is that, Jessie?”

“What? Oh, that's a white ibis. See his red legs and red face? He won't let us come much closer. There's a swamp just beyond that mess of sea oats.”

“I'd never imagined such a place as this,” Maggie said, and pulled the bonnet lower on her forehead. “A lady could ruin her complexion very quickly here with all this bright sunlight and the salt spray.”

James pulled the horses to a halt in front of a weathered gray clapboard house, which looked the way most of them had pictured all the houses in Ocracoke would look. There was a sign over the gate that could barely be read. “It looks so derelict,” Jessie said, looking at the buckling gray boards, the weeds that grew nearly to her waist. There were several broken windows. A stunted live oak grew in the front yard. “A Mr. and Mrs. Potter are the caretakers. Why is the grass so high? Why are there loose boards lying around?” Jessie said. “After I recovered from the fever, Papa never wanted to come back, but the Potters should have taken care of things. Papa has sent them money over the years for repairs and upkeep.”

“It appears,” Marcus said, shading his eyes from the bright overhead noon sun, “that the Potters have taken themselves off to other parts, your father's money in their pockets.”

“But why didn't anyone say anything about it to me?” Jessie said, nearly in tears.

“Enough dawdling,” Spears said, lightly stepping over loose boards that had fallen from a low-lying water tank. “We will consider the air invigorating, the house a challenge. We are prepared.”

Charles was crying but Anthony was running around, wanting to see everything at the same time. Spears finally called him to order, and to his father's disgust, Anthony obeyed immediately.

The inside of the house made Jessie's tears flow over. “It was so lived-in before. Now, just look at it. Everything is falling apart and it smells like mildew and other things I don't really want to try to identify. Why didn't any of them tell me what had happened? Surely they knew that the Potters had left. They had to have known. Why didn't they tell me?”

“No matter,” Spears said, patting her arm. “Bess is
ready to work, as we all are. Don't worry. We will make inquiries tomorrow. There will be a sensible answer. Now, Jessie, you must rest.”

But Jessie couldn't rest. All of them rolled up their sleeves, scrubbed, and dusted, all in all exhausting themselves so that by that evening Badger's dinner of fresh baked croaker, brought over to them by Mrs. Gaskill, to which Badger added small onions and a sweet wine, potatoes boiled in butter and parsley, fresh peas from Mrs. Gaskill's garden, and a mince pie lifted everyone's spirits. Everyone ate in the dining room, the Potters having left the long dining table, probably, Sampson said, because it was too heavy for them to carry. There weren't enough chairs, but it didn't matter. There weren't enough beds either, of course, but Maggie and Bess had remembered to bring a trunkful of blankets and sheets. Since there were only four bedrooms, all of them very small, it was a tight squeeze, but everyone managed, Badger's excellent cooking keeping their testiness low.

That night after James had made love to her, Jessie dreamed again of that day when Mr. Tom had tried to rape her. It was vague this time, the terror blurred as if it were far away from her. Still, James held her close and rubbed her back until her breathing slowed. “Tomorrow,” she said finally. “Tomorrow morning we will go to the beach and dig up all Mr. Tom's diaries. Then we'll know.”

“Then the bloody nightmares will stop,” James said.

The last of Blackbeard's fourteen wives was a “most charming young creature of twelve.”

 

T
HE MORNING WAS
sunny and warm. They dressed and ate quickly. Everyone wanted to get to the beach to dig up those diaries.

Jessie was wearing her trousers—a bit more snug in the waist than they'd seemed yesterday, so it seemed to her—old boots, weathered shirt, and the rattiest hat James had ever seen, and he'd seen her wear some pretty ratty hats during the past six years.

They arrived in the wagon at the beach, not more than a half mile from the Warfield house. Anthony was whooping and yelling until his father put his head under his arm and began to rub the top of his head. “Be quiet, you young heathen. Your mother will become cold to both of us if you don't calm down. Now, before you ask, yes, when we arrive at the beach you may go wading. Be sure to roll up your trousers and put your shoes and socks at a safe distance from the surf. Don't go deeper than your knees.”

“Yes, Master Anthony,” Spears said in his calm, deep voice. “You will restrain your wild spirits until it is appropriate to unrestrain them. If you go beyond your knees, I will be excessively displeased. I will even hint to your papa that—”

“I swear I won't go any deeper, Spears. I swear it.”

“He's as convincing as you are, my lord,” Spears said to the earl.

“Anthony isn't going near the water until we find Jessie's diaries,” the Duchess said, rubbing her son's head herself a couple of times.

“Here!” Jessie suddenly yelled. “Right here. Stop the wagon, Sampson.”

Old Tom's dilapidated hut was no longer standing. There was still a porch of sorts, but the small wooden building had collapsed in on itself. Sea grass was poking tall from between every crevice in the rotting wood. It was obvious that storms had brought it down.

“This is where Old Tom lived?” Spears asked blankly.

“You were expecting perhaps Chase Park?” James said, and poked Spears on his arm, which made the valet turn slowly and look at James as if he'd never seen him before. It had been a poke between friends, not master and servant. James just grinned and nodded.

“I'm surprised so much of it is left,” Jessie said, kicking boards around with her foot. “But it doesn't matter.”

“No, it doesn't,” James said. “I'm relieved it's here at all. Excuse us for a moment. We want to look at what's left of that shack.”

They walked hand in hand to the crumbled structure. Only one wall was still partially standing. Sand and rotted wood filled the small area. It was empty of pain, or fear; all horror had disappeared long ago. It was as peaceful as the beautiful blue sky overhead.

“There's really nothing at all left,” Jessie said, looking around. “Well, there's a crab trying to escape us.”

“You want to find those diaries now, Jessie?”

“Oh, yes. There's nothing for us here, James, nothing at all.”

“Excellent.”

All of them stood there, staring out over the water, then to the north and south. Long, waving arms of sea grass that held the sand were alternately dense and meager. Sand dunes undulated for as far as one could see. The waves sounded rhythmic and smooth. The sun was fiercely bright overhead, making the water sparkle with starlike lights. Sea gulls swooped down around them, hopeful for scraps, squawking loudly when they didn't get any, then plunging into the water for food. There was a briskness to the air, but it wasn't cold by any means.

“I wouldn't want to be dropped into that water, despite the bright sun,” Maggie said, clasping her arms around her body.

“Where, Jessie?” James asked, wanting suddenly to pull off his boots and feel the warm sand between his toes.

“Let me think,” she said, and left them to walk toward the water, a good thirty feet from Old Tom's cabin. “I remember that I wrapped the diaries very carefully in the oilcloth and buried the bundle beneath a small live oak. It's been ten years, so the tree will have grown considerably. If I look directly at the front of Mr. Tom's cabin and turn my head just about an hour to my right, then—There it is! That's the live oak. Goodness, look at how oddly shaped it is. But it's still here, thank God.”

Jessie was running to the tree, Anthony tearing behind her, whooping louder than the black skimmers overhead, his ocean wading temporarily forgotten.

It was too easy, James thought. It was just too easy. The tree looked very strange indeed, nearly bowed onto its landward side by the harsh sea winds, its trunk twisted and coiled and turned around on itself. There were lumps and dents and hollows. It was possibly the ugliest tree James had ever seen.

“Bring the spade, Sampson,” James called, and made his way after Jessie, who was already on her hands and knees,
digging into the sand with her hands, Anthony beside her, flinging small handfuls of sand over his shoulder. A blue crab scurried away from the flying grains. Terns and sanderlings began to wheel downward, coming closer, scenting food. Sea gulls were bolder, some running nearly to Jessie's digging hands, then scurrying back when Anthony yelled in excitement, his fingers striking a root of the tree.

“Papa!”

“Be careful, Anthony,” Jessie said, pulling his hands away. “We don't want to kill the tree. Just dig gently around the roots. That's right.”

But they didn't find anything. Fifteen minutes later, all were standing in a circle around that stunted live oak, which stood alone now, like a castle surrounded by a moat.

Jessie was shaking her head. “I couldn't have dug any deeper than this. Where is it?”

James closed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “It's been ten years, Jessie. You've told me many times how the landscape can shift drastically in just one day. Ten years is a very long time, and there have been violent storms.”

“This is depressing,” Maggie said, standing there with her brilliant red hair glistening in the sunlight, her skirts billowing in the salty wind. “Jessie, one of your streamers is stuck beneath your collar. That's right, just pull it out and let it blow free. Much better.”

Anthony sighed deeply. “I'd hoped we'd find a treasure, Jessie. Do you have any idea where Blackbeard could have hidden it even without the diaries?”

“No, I'm sorry, Anthony, but I haven't a clue.”

“My first treasure and I won't find it,” he said, shook his head, dropped to the sand, and began taking off his shoes and socks.

It was Sampson who said, “I say, Jessie, this tree looks like it should preside in a witch's forest. It's gnarly and all
twisted about, and just look at that odd bulge. I didn't know trees could bulge out like that. It looks like an old man with a goiter.”

She frowned, stepped forward, and ran her hands over the fat bulge in the tree. “I've heard stories,” she began, and now her eyes began to sparkle, “about how the water swept up by storms could nearly rip trees up by their roots. Just suppose something was buried at the base of those roots. Why then, the bundle might just get swept up into the tree and be stuck there. Then it just might continue to be pushed upward as the tree grew.”

“You mean,” James said, “that this unlikely lump here is really the oilskin bundle? It grew up into the tree itself?”

“Why not?” Jessie said. “Oh dear, we must sacrifice the tree. It is excessively ugly.”

“I'll get an ax,” Anthony yelled, running back to the wagon, Spears on his heels.

A white ibis, its red legs and red face as vivid as a sunset, stood some twenty feet away and watched as they chopped down the tree.

“Oh dear,” Jessie said. “I feel guilty about this.”

The tree broke into two parts. Anthony, looking like an urchin, squealed, “Look, Papa, it's hollow!”

James grinned down at her. “It's your diaries, your treasure. See if your theory is right, Jessie.”

Gingerly, Jessie slipped her hand up into the tree. She felt scaly bumps, sharp jabs, spongy stuff she'd rather not think about, and then she felt cloth. Oilcloth. She could only stare up at James. “I don't really believe it,” she said finally. “I'm tugging, but it's not coming loose.”

James managed to pull the rotting bundle from the tree. He held it like a precious gift in his palms. The oilcloth fell away. Inside were five books, not in the best of shape, but not utterly destroyed either.

“Oh goodness,” Anthony said.

“Jessie,” James said. “These are Blackbeard's diaries?”

“Yes. These two he wrote himself. These two Blackbeard's grandson, Samuel Teach, wrote. He was Mr. Tom's father. And this one that looks so old it will crumble in your hands, Valentine wrote.”

“But that doesn't make sense, Jessie,” the Duchess said, swiping a thick tress of hair from her face. “If the grandson had his grandfather's diary, then why wouldn't he have dug up the treasure? And what about Blackbeard's son? Why didn't he get the treasure?”

“Probably,” Marcus said, “because the son and grandson weren't smart enough to catch Blackbeard's clues.”

Badger said, “I'll wager that the son and grandson both probably got themselves hanged before they could search for the treasure. They both sound like wastrels.”

Jessie said, “Don't forget Red Eye Crimson and Mr. Tom, Blackbeard's great-grandson.”

It was difficult but Anthony managed to remain somewhat still while James drove the wagon back to the Warfield house. They all trooped into the small parlor while Jessie sat down on the threadbare carpet, the oilskin bundled up in front of her on the floor. Badger brought in tea Old Bess had prepared.

“All right,” Marcus said. “Why didn't Blackbeard's son or his grandson, for that matter, dig up the treasure? Oh God, there wasn't a treasure, that's the only thing that makes sense.” He stopped. Jessie was shaking her head madly.

“I remember now that Mr. Tom said something about Blackbeard's son not getting the treasure because he was caught by the British just after he'd found his father's diaries in his mother's attic. He only had time to pass them along to his son, Samuel Teach, Old Tom's father. So Badger was right. Why Samuel Teach didn't get the treasure, I don't know. Surely we'll find out when we read his diaries.”

“Red Eye Crimson,” James said. “What happened to
him, Jessie? Didn't you tell me he went to jail?”

“I was told that he wouldn't get out of jail for ninety years. I was mighty relieved.”

“Just perhaps,” James said thoughtfully, taking her hand in his, his thumb smoothing over her skin, “he did. Just perhaps this Red Eye is the one who killed Allen Belmonde when he found out Allen was trying to kill you. Just perhaps he's your savior and your devil. Just perhaps he's been after you, only you were lucky and he never got you alone. Then you went to England, and when you came back to Baltimore you were surrounded by a crowd.”

Jessie shuddered. “I don't like to remember that night Red Eye came, James. He was so angry, so enraged. He wanted to kill me but he knew he couldn't at that point, not until I'd taken him to where I'd buried the diaries. I was very, very lucky.”

“If James is right,” Marcus said, “it means that Red Eye Crimson could still be lurking about. It's possible that he's here on Ocracoke, that he followed us, guessing what we were after.”

“We will keep a sharp eye out,” James said. “Did anyone bring a gun?”

Spears said simply, “Naturally. I never travel outside my own environs without proper protection. If you will remember, my lord, I had a gun in Paris when we were encouraging you to marry the Duchess. Ah, that was a time.” Spears cleared his throat and, to Jessie's astonishment, looked mildly embarrassed. “I will fetch it shortly. But it's not enough. We will arm ourselves. May we procure firearms in the village, Jessie?”

She nodded numbly, somehow fancying that the world had taken a faulty turn. Red Eye Crimson killed Allen Belmonde because he knew that Allen was trying to kill her? It sounded beyond farfetched. Besides, why did Allen want to kill her? She said finally, “Mr. Styron has a fine
collection. If he won't sell us guns, he would surely lend them to us.”

“Well then,” James said. “That takes care of the threat from Red Eye Crimson.”

“Yes,” Jessie said, drawing a deep breath. “Let's look at the diaries now. It's time, don't you think? Is everyone ready?”