The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury Read online

  Pride for him filled her heart. Iris gave his forearm a squeeze of encouragement.

  “Think on it, Iris. Twice now I have been smitten by natural forces. It’s humbling, to be sure. Do you suppose God is trying to tell me something?”

  “I have no answers. I only know God has not smote you. He shares your suffering. He’s borne it himself. You have been punishing yourself for the guilt you feel. Unjustly punishing yourself. You strove to do good and yet suffering has come upon you. I don’t understand it any more than you, but I believe He must have other plans for you.”

  Johnny gave a thoughtful frown. “Aye, I feel in my spirit He has something yet for me to do and yet … this darkness. It consumes me. I have never felt so alone.”

  “But Johnny, you are not alone.” Iris took his firm, strong, sculptor’s hand in hers. She turned it over and ran her fingers over the scars and calluses. “We are here for you. We care for you. You have my father’s devotion as surely as if you were born into his family. You speak of debts. I sense there is more behind his gratitude than you having once saved his daughter from drowning. His manner suggests there is a debt owed … but owed to you. Why? Why is my father honor-bound to you?”

  He withdrew his hand from hers. “It doesn’t appear that Salty is going to make an appearance today. I’m sure he misses his bacon. Perhaps you’d be willing to bring me here again?”

  The shift in his demeanor produced the same effect as closing a door in her face. He was through sharing.

  “Of course I shall bring you here again,” Iris said. Though she was left with questions, she had learned much this morning and for that she was grateful. Johnny had taken her into his confidence. He was a friend of her heart who, for so long, had been lost to her. But now he’d been restored. And she had hoped to restore something to him, but the longer they’d waited, the more she’d begun to fear that Salty had perished in the storm. She suspected Johnny thought the same.

  He responded with a solemn nod and a tiny smile of gratitude, keeping his fears to himself, alone in the darkness, the way he held onto his secrets.

  Iris guided him back to the warmth of the keeping room, and while he breakfasted with Father, and Hetty made her preparations for the day, she stepped out to walk the bluffs alone.

  Last evening, she’d twisted and tied her straight hair so that, come morning, she’d have a cascade of ringlets to secure behind her head with pins and ribbon. But even with the fur-lined hood covering her coiffure, the sea roared in her ears and the wind played with her curls.

  Iris didn’t care. She needed this time alone to gather her thoughts. She believed in what her heart was telling her. That she could not be experiencing this fullness of emotion alone. Surely, Johnny must feel it too. In twenty-one years why had love never found her? Because it had been quietly abiding in her heart, waiting for the appearance of her childhood friend and protector. Destiny meant for them to be together.

  Or was this all the result of a foolish girl’s imagination?

  Johnny warned her not to set her hopes on him. Romance was the furthest thing from his mind when his heart grieved for another.

  His blindness, his guilt, his grief — they formed a wall of resistance to her.

  He was destitute. For the second time in his life, he’d lost all. And now it seemed Johnny had lost Salty as well. Please grant him this one small thing, she prayed. Johnny needs something to give him hope, a sign. It broke her heart to gaze at his handsome face and receive a blank stare.

  Sadness enveloped her. He might as well remain hidden in a tower across the bay for the distance that still separated them. Not physical distance, but emotional, which was even worse.

  She tramped over the wilted dune grass, as though, if she walked long enough, she might find the hope that eluded her. Muffled within the soft marten fur of her cloak, she inhaled the fading remnants of her mother’s tuberose scent.

  As she neared the front entrance of Nook House, Iris admired its grand, yellow clapboard façade with Paris green trim. The colors had been Mama’s choice, and thoughts of her mother lifted Iris’s sights even higher to the second floor bedroom window.

  Though drawn wide, the draperies remained visible — oyster white chintz embellished with deep rich florals. Iris had opened them earlier to allow in the sunlight. Some days she opened the window to freshen the room. Today she had left that window tightly shut, and yet the draperies rustled as though blown by a breeze.

  Fear pulsed through her, a spook that rattled every nerve in her body. As she watched, a shadow fell across the panes then quickly disappeared. Someone had stood at her mother’s window! Not Johnny, obviously. Father never went in there anymore, and Hetty would not be lurking behind the curtains. Had someone been watching her?

  The sun’s bright rays warmed the left side of her face. Perhaps the blinding light had played tricks with her vision. What other explanation could there be?

  Suddenly, Iris felt the bite of winter’s cold. She burrowed her mitten-covered hands in the pockets of her fur cloak and hunched her shoulders against a balmy sea breeze that blew at her back as though pressing her forward.

  The wind changed direction to whip around her. She reacted with an involuntary shudder. Her heart began to race, as though her senses fought to alert her to something her mind could not grasp. She glanced again at the empty window panes, then down at a flutter of dried leaves that danced across the front walk and swirled toward the heavy green door bordered by side lights. Something lay across the front stoop.

  She walked closer, and there, sheltered beneath the portico, she found a selection of carefully chosen and thoroughly-cleaned shells, in just the manner Peter used to leave for her mother.

  Iris smiled with relief, recalling his words to her. “And now it is you who shall be ‘my lady’.”

  Her heart warmed at his thoughtfulness, when suddenly it came to her. Peter. It had been Peter in the window. Alice would have sent him upstairs to tend the bedroom fireplaces. Expecting her to bring the shells to her mother’s room, Peter must have decided to watch from the window and catch her reaction when she found his Christmas gift.

  Her uneasiness dissolved like sea foam melting into beach sand with the retreating tide.

  Iris pocketed her white mittens and collected the shells, one by one tucking them into the crook of her arm. There was a fragile sand dollar, a dogwinkle, an oyster drill and a shark’s eye. She carefully plucked up a delicate sea urchin and examined the symmetrical rows of bumps where the spines had once been attached. It must have taken Peter several months to gather such specimens. As she reached for the last and largest — a smooth, pale gray, moon snail shell — she spied a small square of paper rolled inside the opening.

  She slipped out the note and shook open the page. Eleven startling words stared back at her in a hauntingly scratchy scrawl, as though written by a child or an ill-educated hand.

  Willful, disobedient girl. You are not as clever as you think.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring the words. Iris dropped the shells. They crashed and clattered on the stoop. Her thoughts stilled in numbed confusion. She couldn’t imagine Peter writing anything so cruel. It seemed inconceivable and yet what was she to think?

  Iris stuffed the offensive message into her cloak pocket and marched off in search of him, heading for the grounds at the back of the house. The Moon family estate included acres of farmland with gardens and an orchard and grain fields for the livestock, all of which provisioned not only her home but the Websters’ as well.

  The barn door yawned open in the farmyard, revealing darkness beyond. Iris lifted her hem and tramped forward. Scents of manure and hay, animals and old wood, grew sharper and stronger as she stepped inside. Pigeons cooed high in the rafters. Peter was mucking out a horse stall, while Father’s pretty gray mare stood in the aisle munching from a bucket of oats. Iris saw the sweat on Peter’s brow, the dirt on his clothes, and knew what contentment he found here. Serenity seemed to surround
him, and his face lit with joy when he noticed her. But as Iris drew closer, and her expression came into view within the dark shadows of the barn, he crumpled in confusion and fear.

  Iris took a deep breath, calming her features and reining in her upset, but he cringed with a look that seemed to cry, What have I done?

  “Oh, Peter, I’m not angry with you, just confused. I found this note among the lovely shells you left me.” She pulled it from her pocket and opened the sheet for him to see. “I’m sure it is a misunderstanding, but why would you write such things? What do they mean?”

  Peter’s stare grew large and round. The whites of his eyes glowed in the darkness. Slowly, he leaned his pitchfork against the stall. He gaped without comprehension at the page then back at her. “I didn’t write nothing, my lady. I don’t know how. I don’t know my letters. What does it say? I wouldn’t say nothing bad. You are my friend!” His voice rose excitedly, his words coming faster and faster as panic gripped him. “I brought you shells. A Christmas gift. The best shells I could find. I was saving them for Lady Moon, but she’s not coming back, is she? I’m a good friend, ain’t I? Don’t be cross with me, my lady. Not many are a friend to me. Not many are as kind as Lady Moon. I’m a good friend. I can keep a secret for a friend, I can. I won’t tell. I promised. I won’t say anything for a friend that asks me.”

  In his distressed state, Peter had started to not make sense, confusing her with her mother. Quickly, Iris realized her error. If she had only stopped to think and not allowed emotion to get the better of her, she would have remembered Peter couldn’t read or write. She had upset and frightened him, when he’d only meant to do something nice for her.

  How could he have been standing at the window, when he had been here, mucking out Moonshine’s stall? Alice would have never allowed Peter anywhere near the upstairs bedrooms smelling of dung and animals.

  Iris felt horrible.

  “Forgive me, Peter. I’m so sorry to have upset you. Forget the note. It does not matter what it says. I know it wasn’t you who wrote it,” she said, crumpling the small page and shoving it deep in her pocket. “The shells are lovely. I shall treasure them always. And yes, Peter, you are a good friend. A true friend. Thank you.”

  Iris remained in the barn, talking softly to Peter as he worked, until she’d managed to calm him down, but all the while, in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder — who had been hiding in her mother’s room? Who had left the distressing note?

  Chapter 18

  Christmas was a day for quiet remembrance of the nativity of Jesus Christ. A day for families to cluster together in prayer and thanksgiving. A day spent in the enjoyment of one another and simple, homey pleasures. A spirit of goodwill and kindness flowed from neighbor to neighbor, and employers expressed appreciation to their workers in monetary gifts.

  Folks knew to keep their celebrations indoors in order to avoid revelers who viewed the day and surplus funds as an excuse for drunkenness and mischief.

  One of those rascally revelers had done Iris a cruel mischief. And not just to her but to Peter as well in defiling his gift with a malicious note. This was the conclusion she had drawn, and although she could not imagine anyone who would take advantage of sweet Peter in such a way, she would not let them ruin her day.

  With a quick check of her appearance in the sitting room mirror, Iris tossed her mother’s cloak over her shoulders and fastened the ornamental braided frog at her throat. She then hurried from the room and into the foyer, where Hetty waited.

  Hetty soaked up Iris’s appearance from head to toe, a tear forming. “You look an image of your dear mother.” The nurse wore her best poke bonnet of ivory silk. Its wide brim encircled her full, soft face and tied in a generous bow under her chin.

  Father descended from the staircase landing, looking especially handsome in a turquoise jacket with claw-hammer tails. His luxuriant, white hair and beard stood in sharp contrast against the dark velvet, and the effect was striking. “Are we ready, ladies? I have convinced Johnny to join us, but we shall be late for church if we don’t soon depart.” His voice resounded like a captain’s sharp command issued from the quarterdeck.

  Behind him, Johnny followed in his new linen shirt with one of Father’s neckerchiefs tied smartly around the standup collar. Dark lashes hid the emptiness of his eyes, as he picked his way down, guided by the staircase’s smooth, polished handrail. Iris ached with longing at the sight of him. Father had great influence over Johnny. He had convinced him where she had failed. After a year of living like a curmudgeon and being imprisoned before that, attending meeting services was a momentous step.

  Nook House was situated within walking distance of the meetinghouse at the center of Duxbury Town. It was still too far for Hetty’s old bones in this cold clime, so they squeezed into the hooded chaise with Iris in the middle and Johnny seated behind on the boot. A basket of plum puddings and the Cornish pasties Hetty had prepared lay at her feet, for they were to dine later with the Websters for a little family party.

  Father clucked to his mare, setting the carriage in motion. Moonshine’s hooves clopped over the hard packed ground and the seat cushion jostled Iris on its spring. All Duxbury paths lead to the meetinghouse at the junction of Tremont and Depot Streets, but Father took the Nook Road westward.

  It was a peaceful ride. Johnny could not enjoy the view, but Father kept him entertained with conversation. Iris would have liked to read her mysterious note to Johnny, but she didn’t want to burden him with her concerns. This was to be his first day out of Nook House since the accident. Attending meeting meant an introduction to the Duxbury public after keeping to himself for a year at Pilgrim Light. And through it all, Johnny was still learning to function without his sight.

  Neither would Iris show the note to Father when she knew the day would be difficult enough for him, missing her mother. She’d say nothing of the matter and strive to put it from her mind, because it wouldn’t do to ruin Hetty’s day either.

  Her prayers were many that morning, and then, as the service progressed and hymns of praise filled the meetinghouse, Iris grew so engaged that the whole unpleasantness seemed like a silly episode she had magnified in her mind.

  Worship concluded with a joyous chiming of the church bell. Townsfolk lingered in the churchyard by their wagons, chaises and horses. They huddled in overcoats with turned-up collars and woolen mufflers to exchange pleasantries and bestow gifts of apple, mince and pumpkins pies, warm from their kitchens. The more prosperous shipbuilders, merchants and captains tossed pennies to the children.

  A gathering began to form around Father, Johnny, Uncle Alden and others, comprised of folks wishing to express their appreciation to the heroes of the Vulture wreck. Iris stepped back as more people pressed forward and then removed herself from the crowd entirely. She slipped out the church grounds and strolled away.

  She sought time alone at her mother’s resting place before Father and Hetty came to pay their respects. Iris raised her fur-lined hood as she entered the partially-wooded burying ground. The air cooled the further she progressed, for the large Georgian-style meetinghouse sat upon a hill, blocking sunlight from the graveyard. Her slippers crunched over the frozen grass. Tall, bare trees reached their spindly, grasping branches over the headstones and cast eerie shadows on the moist earth and small patches of remaining snow.

  Even after a year, she could scarcely believe Mama was buried here. Sometimes it seemed like a dream, and she had only to return home to Nook House and Mama would be there.

  The cold stung her eyes, causing them to water. Iris wiped them with her mitten, lost in thought, not noticing him at first. When she did lift her gaze down the path ahead, she startled to discover a man stood in the exact spot that faced her mother’s grave marker.

  It was the passenger of the doomed Vulture. Iris recognized him, not only by his tall, beaver hat and black great coat, but by his bearing. It hinted at arrogance, as though he believed he’d every right to go
where he pleased. Even to her mother’s grave.

  She recalled the manner in which he’d stared at her from below the bluff, tipped his hat to her and then disappeared. The experience had left her unsettled. Iris didn’t care to be alone with the fellow. His presence disturbed her. It was an intrusion of her privacy, and she didn’t know whether to venture forward or quickly turn back, but curiosity kept her rooted a bit too long. The man glanced up and saw her. He doffed his hat in acknowledgment, and at that point Iris had no polite choice but to join him.

  “A merry Christmas, my dear girl,” he greeted as she stepped closer. “I hope you don’t mind. I was just paying my respects. I cannot help but wonder after this touching epitaph inscribed at the bottom of the headstone. ‘Yet again we hope to meet thee, When the day of life is fled, Then in heaven with joy to greet thee, Where no farewell tear is shed. Love eternal, forever and beyond,’” he read. “I take it she must have been well loved by her husband.”

  “Indeed sir, my mother and father were very much in love,” Iris said with a ring of indignation. She wanted this stranger to know that, but on the other hand, what business was it of his?

  He must be well into his sixties, she thought. The gray of his long side whiskers threaded up through his temples into his dark hair. The years showed on his narrow face and in the darkened circles beneath his eyes, but Iris imagined he must have once been a very handsome man.

  He sensed her appraisal as well as her annoyance and attempted to remedy it with a smile. “Oh, do forgive me. I have not introduced myself. My name is Mr. Gregory.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Gregory. I see you have survived the ordeal of the shipwreck without injury. I am Iris Moon.”

  “Iris Moon. Daughter of the lovely Eleanor. My dear, it is a pleasure to meet you. You see, I once knew your mother.”

  He reached out to take her hands, and Iris was glad she wore her thick, woolen mittens. Under any other circumstance, she would have been overjoyed at the opportunity to talk to an acquaintance from Mama’s homeland, but there was a coldness about Mr. Gregory that roused her distrust. Maybe it was his overly polite manner or the trance-like way he had stared at her after his rescue, but she didn’t feel comfortable. He wore a large emerald ring, and for some unknown reason, the sight of it increased her unease.