The Crossing Page 17
“A-yuh. You know the stars. I know boats.”
“But Hugh, this boat is not more than forty feet long.”
“Thirty-nine feet. Joshua Slocum went round the world in a thirty-six-foot sloop.” Phin looked up. A big smile cracked his weather-beaten face. “Want to come? It’ll be a wicked good sail.”
As the sun climbed over the horizon, tinting the world a pale lavender, the cliffs of Barra Bay sprang up from the sea. The dark granite softened in the melting morning light, but the rock was crowned with green, the greenest green the girls had ever seen. The water was calm, but ahead they saw a stirring that was not a school of fish or seals or dolphins. The pattern was familiar and could only have been caused by one creature. Then a silvery head broke through and a glittering tail threw off spangles of light as if to show them the way … the way home.
Ettie sat in the library of the lavish Hawley apartment on the Rue Montard near the Paris Opera House. She was pondering the differences between a house in mourning and one in shame. It had presented a sartorial problem to begin with. Of course no one had questioned it verbally, but should they dress in black? They had in essence lost a daughter, but should a murderess be accorded the same sartorial honors of a person who had actually died? It was clear no one from the family could be seen in public. They were effectively sealed off from any kind of social intercourse. Her father spent hours closeted with lawyers and doctors. The most they could hope for was a plea of insanity and a judge who would rule that Lila was not competent to stand trial. Her mother not only hoped for this outcome but prayed for it assiduously and sometimes made twice-daily visits to a chapel on the Left Bank where she was assured of encountering none of her friends.
If Lila was considered unable to stand trial, she would be tucked away, this time forever, in an insane asylum. The euphemism sanitarium was no longer operational. But an asylum was not a prison. Not that this would lessen the taint of the crime. The family would be stained for years.
There was, however, one great irony — for Ettie, this stain might prove to be a badge of freedom. How could they care what she did as long as it wasn’t criminal? No one decent would marry her after such a scandal. She might actually be permitted to go to Radcliffe. She could not wait for Uncle Bark and Uncle God to arrive. They were due momentarily.
She heard footsteps outside the library, and suddenly her beloved uncles were there, scooping her up in their arms.
“Daddy’s out at a lawyer’s office at the embassy and Mother is out praying.” She rolled her eyes. “Such is our life.” She sighed. “But I’m here.”
“You are here!” Uncle Godfrey exclaimed, and stepped toward her to embrace her one more time.
“Sirs.” Mr. Marston stepped forward. “I shall take your luggage to your rooms. Should I run baths for both of you?”
“Oh, indeed!” Barkely said, then turned to Ettie. “We’ll be back in a shake.”
When they left, Ettie spotted a newspaper they had set down. Her mother had forbidden newspapers in the house since the tragedy — especially English ones.
Ettie picked up this one, the London Times, and began to page through it. There was nothing about the murder of Mrs. Dyer, but at the bottom of page eight there was a small article that caught her eye.
AMERICAN PORTRAIT PAINTER FOUND DEAD
The body of Stannish Whitman Wheeler, one of America’s most distinguished portrait painters, was found washed up on the southwest coast of England near the village of Pyntmor. Mr. Wheeler, who had painted luminaries on both sides of the Atlantic, was currently residing at Pyntsdale, the Somerset estate of the Baronet of Pynte, where he was painting the baronet’s wife, Lenora Drexel, of the American banking family.
Ettie set down the paper. She was stunned. Had he tried to swim back to Hannah and drowned? Or had it been suicide? She tried to recall the expression on his face when Hannah had dived from the Leonidas. Was there a trace of envy? Loss? Love? Would Hannah find out about his death? She hoped not. Where were the three girls now? Had they found their aunt, their mother’s sister? She folded the paper neatly. She owed Stannish Wheeler a lot. She owed him her life. If he had not grabbed that knife, Lila would have plunged it into her chest. She had her life. It was her life. Not anyone else’s. And now she had to decide what to do with it. It was, after all, the first year of a new century, the twentieth century! And for the first time in what seemed a long time she felt a little shiver of joy.
KATHRYN LASKY is no stranger to the sea, having crossed the Atlantic in a thirty-foot sailboat twice. Kathryn is the author of over fifty books, including the Guardians of Ga’Hoole series, which has sold more than four million copies and is now a major motion picture, Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole. Her books have received a Newbery Honor, a Boston Globe–Horn Book Award, and a Washington Post–Children’s Book Guild Nonfiction Award. She lives with her husband in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Copyright © 2015 by Kathryn Lasky
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First edition, May 2015
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e-ISBN 978-0-545-63404-5
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