“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.
31
The last of Blackbeard’s fourteen wives was a “most charming young creature of twelve.”
THE 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.