all her previous stays. It was a fascinating throwback to an earlier and more gracious time, when houses like this embodied personalities all their own, and demanded a certain amount of decorum and dignity, even from the children and grandchildren who scampered up and down the hall, feet wet and crumbling with beach sand.
Sarah moved quickly in the cold house, across the landing and down the stairs. At the entryway, she glanced into the parlor, which held only a few pieces of furniture and the oval braided rug; no roses or peacock stained glass fire screen was now visible.
If that part of my dream had any basis in reality, I wonder what ever happened to those pieces, she thought, or the wonderful rows of books that lined the now-empty shelves. Sold years ago at auction, no doubt, and Sarah felt a pang of regret and remorse that her family had not had the foresight to preserve this old beauty in its original state. But her primary interest now settled on the bathroom under the stairs. What would she find there?
Bloodstains were not so easy to erase and they soaked into wood easily. If there was any truth to her dream, there should be some trace remaining, no matter how hard they scrubbed. She had reached the bathroom; yet she was reluctant to open the door. The image of Mr. Presbury, with arms wrapped around the toilet bowl, and Mrs. Presbury lying next to him were still vivid in Sarah’s mind. With a deep intake of breath, she pulled the wooden door open and found―nothing.
Just the same bathroom with sink and toilet, as it had been during all her years of growing up, when the cousins would dash in from outside to use it briefly before dashing out again. Sarah hesitated, then turned on the vanity light—and found what she had been looking for: irregular stains in the hardwood floor surface, very faded, but recognizable, where she recalled Arnold Presbury’s head had been lying—just in front of the porcelain toilet and in the semi-circle of flooring planks reaching out to one side from it. She inhaled sharply and leaned against the door frame,
The house, even colder down here than upstairs, seemed to be in a pensive and withdrawn mood, like an aging aunt with her shawl drawn tight across her bosom and her lips pursed in tight disapproval―but of what, or whom? These things just don’t happen in real life, Sarah told herself firmly, and closed the bathroom door. She moved to the thermostat in the entryway, and pushed the lever to 80, hoping to bring the furnace up full for the day. “I’ve got more work to do,” she decided and went into the kitchen.
Chapter 5
October, 1890
Off Cape May Point, the schooner Elizabeth Ann is in trouble.
A sudden autumn storm has been blowing for two days now and the captain is hard put to keep the ship afloat and the crew from mutiny. He is determined to get back on course for South Carolina. The crew and warders on the ship, laden with a cargo of illegal slaves bound for the Charleston plantations, are now just eager to get to shore anywhere and discharge their duties. The men have been pulling two-hour watches on deck, keeping the rudder as trim as possible and doing all they can to simply keep the Elizabeth Ann’s bow turned into each huge wave, some approaching 40 feet and more. Icy water crashes over the decks with each plunge into the troughs. The first mate pulls the captain aside.
“Sir, there be serious talk by the men of taking matters into their own hands,” says the mate to the captain, a fine old gentleman sailor who has been master of this vessel for almost 20 years. His face is thick as a prize ham and weathered as beef jerky. He wears mutton chop grey whiskers on either side of a florid face. Thin red lines crisscross his nose like the delicate veins on a hothouse rosebud.
“By God, they’ll not do it so long as I am master of this ship,” he cries defiantly, shouting into the mate’s ear to be heard. The mate, an old sea hand and veteran of
Sarah moved quickly in the cold house, across the landing and down the stairs. At the entryway, she glanced into the parlor, which held only a few pieces of furniture and the oval braided rug; no roses or peacock stained glass fire screen was now visible.
If that part of my dream had any basis in reality, I wonder what ever happened to those pieces, she thought, or the wonderful rows of books that lined the now-empty shelves. Sold years ago at auction, no doubt, and Sarah felt a pang of regret and remorse that her family had not had the foresight to preserve this old beauty in its original state. But her primary interest now settled on the bathroom under the stairs. What would she find there?
Bloodstains were not so easy to erase and they soaked into wood easily. If there was any truth to her dream, there should be some trace remaining, no matter how hard they scrubbed. She had reached the bathroom; yet she was reluctant to open the door. The image of Mr. Presbury, with arms wrapped around the toilet bowl, and Mrs. Presbury lying next to him were still vivid in Sarah’s mind. With a deep intake of breath, she pulled the wooden door open and found―nothing.
Just the same bathroom with sink and toilet, as it had been during all her years of growing up, when the cousins would dash in from outside to use it briefly before dashing out again. Sarah hesitated, then turned on the vanity light—and found what she had been looking for: irregular stains in the hardwood floor surface, very faded, but recognizable, where she recalled Arnold Presbury’s head had been lying—just in front of the porcelain toilet and in the semi-circle of flooring planks reaching out to one side from it. She inhaled sharply and leaned against the door frame,
The house, even colder down here than upstairs, seemed to be in a pensive and withdrawn mood, like an aging aunt with her shawl drawn tight across her bosom and her lips pursed in tight disapproval―but of what, or whom? These things just don’t happen in real life, Sarah told herself firmly, and closed the bathroom door. She moved to the thermostat in the entryway, and pushed the lever to 80, hoping to bring the furnace up full for the day. “I’ve got more work to do,” she decided and went into the kitchen.
Chapter 5
October, 1890
Off Cape May Point, the schooner Elizabeth Ann is in trouble.
A sudden autumn storm has been blowing for two days now and the captain is hard put to keep the ship afloat and the crew from mutiny. He is determined to get back on course for South Carolina. The crew and warders on the ship, laden with a cargo of illegal slaves bound for the Charleston plantations, are now just eager to get to shore anywhere and discharge their duties. The men have been pulling two-hour watches on deck, keeping the rudder as trim as possible and doing all they can to simply keep the Elizabeth Ann’s bow turned into each huge wave, some approaching 40 feet and more. Icy water crashes over the decks with each plunge into the troughs. The first mate pulls the captain aside.
“Sir, there be serious talk by the men of taking matters into their own hands,” says the mate to the captain, a fine old gentleman sailor who has been master of this vessel for almost 20 years. His face is thick as a prize ham and weathered as beef jerky. He wears mutton chop grey whiskers on either side of a florid face. Thin red lines crisscross his nose like the delicate veins on a hothouse rosebud.
“By God, they’ll not do it so long as I am master of this ship,” he cries defiantly, shouting into the mate’s ear to be heard. The mate, an old sea hand and veteran of
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