The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury Read online

  Iris glanced into his eyes and suddenly realized they were the same distinct blue as her mother’s. Father had used to compare them to the Wedgwood blue of fine English porcelain.

  Iris’s heart rate accelerated.

  She pulled away and turned to glance down at the headstone. The inscription read, “Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Eleanor Moon, wife of Captain Ezra Moon, who yielded up the spirit of her earthly casket to God on the 1st day of December 1824 in the 44th year of her age.”

  “Did you know my mother from Cornwall?” Iris did not glance up from the grave marker to address him.

  “Exactly so. I knew her well. In fact, when I last saw her I believe she was just about your age. You look so much alike it is as if no time has past, and I am reunited with Eleanor once again. How can she be lying beneath this cold earth, when I see her standing here before me? I can scarcely separate the two of you in my mind.”

  He looked at her as though he might touch her cheek. He pressed closer, and Iris got a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, similar to what she’d felt when she found the note in Peter’s gift of shells.

  She stepped back. “Sir, what exactly was the nature of your acquaintance with my mother?”

  “Iris! Iris, are you out here?”

  Johnny’s voice reached her from across the tree-studded burying ground like a lifeline. Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Iris turned to find him picking his way towards her. He wielded a walking stick she had never seen before, which he crudely banged against the headstones and tree trunks in order to find a clear path. His other hand, he held out before him like a shield.

  “Who’s there? Iris, are you speaking with someone?”

  “Yes, we are here, Johnny.”

  Iris immediately stepped forth to go to him, but when she turned back to look, Mr. Gregory had once again vanished.

  Chapter 19

  Johnny harkened to the footsteps that drew near. Moments later, he felt Iris take his arm.

  “Where did you get the walking stick? It looks to be very fine.”

  He grinned at the surprise in her voice. “’Tis a gift from Lud and your Uncle Alden, who fashioned it for me in the shipbuilding shed. I asked Captain Moon to give me a head start in finding you, so I could try my skill in using it.”

  “I’m proud of you, Johnny. Father is coming?”

  He nodded. “Directly behind me, escorting Nurse Hastings. Who else is here with you, Iris?”

  “Was here. He seems to have disappeared. It was your shipwreck survivor, Mr. Gregory. I found him standing at my mother’s gravesite. Strange, don’t you think? We only spoke briefly, but he claims to have known her when she lived in Cornwall.”

  Johnny’s blood ran cold. But then, with next beat of his heart, reason returned, and he told himself there was no need for concern. Cornwall had ceased to be a danger long ago. Lady Moon had escaped to enjoy a full and happy life as the wife of Captain Moon. And now nothing could ever threaten her again.

  But what about Iris? Johnny had been impressed with an urging to watch and guard her from the day of her visit to Clark’s Island. Did she need protection from this Mr. Gregory of Cornwall? Misgiving nagged at him, not so much because the gentleman once knew Lady Moon but that he’d known where to find her.

  “We must alert your father,” he said.

  Iris’s fingers tightened over his forearm. “Certainly not, Johnny. Promise me you’ll keep this between us. At least for today. It is difficult enough for Father to get through a day of fellowship and family gatherings without Mama to share it with him. The festivities are a painful reminder of her loss. Mr. Gregory, whoever he is, is a curious fellow to be sure, but he is harmless. His only transgression is the memories he brings.”

  He had to agree with her reasoning. “Very well. I shall say nothing for now, but you must do something for me. Until we know more, you must not wander off on your own as you have this morning. Stay close to your family, but if you must venture away or wish to go for a walk, take someone with you.” Johnny grinned. “This blind man, for one, could use the exercise.”

  Protective feelings for his sweet girl raged strong in him. This morning on the rooftop Johnny had longed to take this dear beauty in his arms and kiss her with all the passion and affection of his soul. He had wanted to tell her he felt the same, but Johnny knew he could not allow himself to love her. It would be cruel. He was blind. He was penniless and indebted, released from prison on the condition he would be earning a wage with which to pay off his debt.

  He might have no future to share with her, but that was no excuse to let his own failings keep him from being the friend and guardian Iris presently needed.

  She hooked her arm through his. “Oh, Johnny, thank you. There is something I must share with you.”

  Iris quickly told him about the puzzling note she’d found tucked among the sea shells Peter had left on her doorstep as a Christmas gift.

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

  “Do you think someone has done me a mischief?” she asked.

  Johnny felt for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Aye, that is very possible. Not everyone keeps Christmas as a day of devotion. But how would they have known who the shells were meant for? Perhaps the note was not written for you.”

  “For who then?”

  The young Lady Eleanor Sutherland might have been accused of being willful and disobedient. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you believe Mr. Gregory is dangerous?”

  “He is a stranger, Iris. Let us not take chances.” For whatever reason the fellow might have come looking for Lady Moon, he had found her. Nothing remained for him here, and Johnny hoped Mr. Gregory would disappear as quickly as he’d come.

  After visiting the burying ground and then paying a few neighborly visits, the family retired to the Webster home, where Johnny was reunited with Lud and introduced to Iris’s younger cousins. Mary Webster had prepared a feast of roast spare rib and other holiday dishes.

  Johnny’s hand was grabbed and given a firm shake. “Welcome to our home,” came Lud’s voice. “It is indeed good to see you, my friend. There was a moment I feared neither one of us would survive to see this day.” His tone quieted as he added, “I am sorry about your eyesight, Jon. You did not deserve this.”

  Emotion rose to clog Johnny’s throat as he exchanged the handshake. Lud was but twenty-five years of age with a bright future in store. He had rowed with Johnny to Pilgrim Light that night out of kindness. He wasn’t supposed to have been there when the lightning struck. Johnny could not have forgiven himself if tragedy had befallen this young man.

  “Merry Christmas, Lud. Thank you for my walking stick. From the scent, I would say it is seasoned maple.”

  “It is. You don’t know how sorry I am that you are in need of its service. Is there any hope—?”

  Johnny shook his head, cutting short Lud’s question. The last thing he wanted was to engage in a discussion of hope of recovery when he was feeling none. “We were concerned when we were told you could not attend meeting. How do you fare?”

  “My mother insisted I remain indoors to avoid the cold air in my lungs, but my breathing has greatly improved. Presently, I walk with a cane myself,” he said banging the stick on the floor to illustrate his point, “and have one arm wrapped in a sling due to the burns, but it shan’t slow down my enjoying this feast. There are plenty of fresh, sweet scallops, and a savory pudding of crookneck squash cooked with apples, roasted turkey, a relish of cranberries and orange, and creamed potatoes. I hope you’ve brought your appetite.”

  Lud insisted Johnny sit by him. As Johnny slid into the offered seat, he heard a scuffle which included the sound of a chair scraping roughly on the floor.

  “You can sit beside Keeper Mayne at the dinner table anytime, Iris. This shall be my first, and perhaps only, opportunity to dine with a Nook hero.” Johnny recognized the voice of Lud’s twelve-year-old sister, Deborah.

  “Bu
t what of your own brother?” Iris asked. “Is Lud not a Nook hero, also? Why not take the seat on the other side of him.”

  “Why don’t you take that seat?” asked Deborah.

  Johnny grinned.

  “Daughter,” Captain Moon warned in his hale seaman’s voice. “Mind your manners and let your young cousin have the seat. You’ve just come from a house of God.”

  Seats were taken and hands clasped. Alden Webster spoke a blessing over the meal and all those present, with especial mention to the nativity of Jesus Christ.

  Mary Webster placed a bowl of her winter vegetable soup before Johnny. “It was my mother’s special recipe,” she said. “And there is also a slice of fried, toasted brown bread and one of Hetty’s Cornish meat pies to your right.” She gave his shoulder a comforting touch before stepping away.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Johnny skimmed his fingers along the rim of the steaming bowl. He was not yet skilled at using utensils, and soup was hardest to manage. Despite the warm welcome he’d received — first at meeting services and now in the Webster home — he felt uncomfortably out of place. A spectacle. The savory steam wafting from the bowl left him hungry for a taste, but he dared not, imagining the stares of pity should he slobber hot broth over himself. Yet if he did not eat, he would insult the cook.

  “Mary, dear, perhaps our keeper would fare better with a cup,” Nurse Hastings said and before Johnny knew what was happening, the bowl was removed and a warm mug placed in his hands. “There you go, my lad,” she whispered in his ear.

  The kindness humbled him. Another reminder of how he’d lost power over his own life, in that he needed assistance for this, the simplest of tasks — to enjoy a serving of soup. Why hadn’t he perished in the explosion? While these good Christians celebrated the birth of their Blessed Savior, for him God seemed as unreachable as his lost hope.

  It wasn’t just the loss of his vision; his whole life seemed to be filled with darkness, an icy blackness that stole into the reaches of his heart. He felt nothing save for a terrible foreboding. This was not self-pity. This was something more. This was a feeling of being stalked in a dark wood by an unseen predator, armed with nothing to defend himself.

  He felt he should be doing something useful, but what was he to do when he could barely feed himself?

  I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

  The words flowed through his consciousness uninvited, as though spoken directly into his heart.

  Do what, Lord? What am I to do?

  Therein lay the question. He didn’t expect an answer. For God did not work in that way. He required faith without seeing, trust without answers.

  Johnny lifted his mug and drank the soup, feeling all eyes upon him. Delicious flavors of beans and winter squash in a rich, savory tomato and herb broth brought him back to the present moment. He gave his compliments to the cook, and the meal progressed with Johnny no longer the center of attention.

  *

  “Iris, you’re the closest to the corn pudding,” said Aunt Mary. “Spoon another serving onto your uncle’s plate, would you, dearest? The dish is far too hot to pass, and I purposely set it furthest away from him, knowing he’d make a fine pig of himself and leave none for the rest of us.”

  Her Uncle Alden thrust forth his plate and beseeched her with a smile. “Be generous with that spoon, sweet Iris. Remember, ’tis Christmas Day.”

  The sleeves of her gown had been fashioned quite long, as was the style, and Iris took care not to soil the floret puffs at her wrists as she dipped into the pudding. As she served her uncle and then her teenaged cousins, Caleb and Charlotte, who also begged for more, she stole a glance at Johnny.

  He shoveled a spoonful of creamed potatoes into his mouth unaware of her stare. What was he thinking? He seemed so far removed from her.

  After supper the family gathered in the parlor. At the request of his children, Uncle Alden read aloud a poem he’d clipped and saved from a New York newspaper published about three years ago.

  He injected great drama into his voice. “’Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse… .” Rumored to have been written by a Professor Clement Clarke Moore, the poem was titled “A Visit From St. Nicholas.”

  At dusk, they ventured outdoors to gather around a bonfire with some of the other Nook families to sing Christmas hymns.

  When they returned to Nook House that evening, they were received warmly and enthusiastically by Snow. After shrugging off her mother’s scarlet cloak, Iris took Johnny’s arm. “I think I shall make us all a pot of hot chocolate.”

  Hetty begged off, claiming to be feeling her age after such a long day. She retired directly to bed, while Father headed straight for the keeping room.

  “If you don’t mind, I shall be taking the rocker tonight, Johnny,” he announced.

  Iris directed Johnny to a seat at the long table then set a piece of chocolate in a skillet to boil in water. She then fetched the rest of the ingredients she needed — milk, sugar and nutmeg.

  Snow gave Father her rapt attention, and before removing his great coat, he reached deep into a pocket and pulled forth a long bundle wrapped in one of Aunt Mary’s napkins.

  “Merry Christmas, my good girl,” he said with a chuckle, tossing down what Iris could see was a bone from the roast spare rib, still with generous bits of tender beef clinging to it. Snow snatched it up then carried her gift to the braided rug where she settled down to gnaw.

  The Labrador would be occupied well into the night.

  Father eased himself down into his rocker. “Daughter, I have made you a gift, up there on the mantle.” He pointed to her stack of books like an old fellow too feeble to retrieve it for himself, when, in fact, Ezra Moon was only slightly past fifty and as hale as a man of thirty.

  Tied in a bow with a length of silk ribbon in duck-egg blue, Iris lifted down a book then stepped around to kiss his ruddy cheek. “Oh, Father, how wonderful. A new fiction novel. You are very thoughtful, thank you. I shall enjoy it, and this ribbon will look lovely in my hair. Shall I read aloud?”

  He ran his fingers through his thick crown of snowy hair. Iris thought he looked tired. “Let us sit for now and enjoy the fire. It has been a long day.”

  Iris leaned in close, pressing her cheek to her father’s. She knew very well what ailed him. He was missing the one person who had not shared the day with them.

  “Do you feel her, Father, as I do? It seems she is near to me whenever I think of her.”

  He gave a small, tremulous smile.

  Iris returned to her boiling chocolate. The house grew quiet, the only sounds those of the roaring hearth fire and Snow gnawing on her bone.

  Iris knew better than to try to fill the silence. She would sit with Father, and she and Johnny would share his grief. Nothing anyone could say would help him recover from the loss of his beloved. After an enjoyable day, it seemed he was now punishing himself for partaking in the frivolity without his Eleanor. What Father needed now was nothing more than an understanding touch.

  He certainly did not need to be reminded that life goes on. There was no need. They both knew that, though life did move forward, for the grieving, some days it was all one could do to just keep breathing.

  *

  To Iris, the night seemed to grow darker and quieter by the moment. The household had retired long ago but sleep eluded her. Against her will, the day’s odd events plagued her thoughts until she could not dismiss the nagging suspicion they were somehow connected. Finally, she decided she could either continue listening to the tick, tick, tick of the mantel clock or she could get out of bed and do a bit of investigating. She needed to figure out why her encounter with Mr. Gregory had needled her so. It was his ring. That ostentatious, bold design was quite memorable.

  She tiptoed down the hall to her parents’ deserted bedroom and paused before the closed door.

  Had someone else stood inside this room since she’
d last been here? Was it a shadow she’d seen at the window or the sun’s reflection on the glass? What had caused the curtains to rustle or was it all her imagination?

  Iris pressed her fingers around the wrought iron latch and released the lock with her thumb. The hinges whined as she entered a chilling darkness broken only by the narrow circle of illumination that shone from her candle.

  Candlelight danced over the shadows that comprised the room’s furnishings — the armoire, the four poster bed, her father’s large chest of drawers, and her mother’s vanity and mirror. A delicate scent of the evergreens she’d arranged on the vanity mingled with a winter mustiness of the closed-up room and a lingering smell of ash from the fireplace.

  Iris went first to the window and pulled back the chintz draperies. Her tall, lithe figure shone in the reflection of the twelve-paned window, blocking out the night beyond. A strong sense of her mother’s presence surrounded her, as though Mama were standing at her shoulder. Mama’s floral scent filled the air, and Iris felt her mother’s fear as though it were her own.

  She set the candleholder down and hurried to the heavy chest at the foot of the bed. Her fingers glided over cool, carved wood. She felt for the key in its lock then listened for the click as she turned it, before pushing open the heavy lid.

  She reached deep into the chest and felt along the bottom edge until her fingers found a small wad of muslin. She recalled finding this as a child. As she had back then, Iris pulled it out and with great fascination unwrapped a bejeweled gold ring. Even in the dim light, the facets winked up at her in sparkling colors and most especially from its center, square-cut emerald.

  A smaller, dainty version of the ring Mr. Gregory wore. Iris was certain of it and this would seem to imply that his connection to her mother was that of more than an acquaintance. Who was Mr. Gregory? And why had she never heard of him before?