Marcia Talley - The Last Refuge

‘This isn’t an original, is it?’ I asked, worried that if Paul had to break the bottle to get the message out he’d be destroying a priceless antique.

‘Heavens, no. Look on the bottom where it says ‘Made in China.’’

‘Ah, well, that’s a relief.’ When I sniffed the bottle, it smelled like my grandmother’s Christmas cookies. ‘What was in it originally?’

‘Vanilla. We use a lot of that around here.’

I tucked the bottle into my pocket and followed Karen back into the kitchen where a roast duck rested on a platter, wreathed with perfectly round potatoes the size of golf balls. ‘I’m sorry if Founding Father’s tea party upset your schedule, Karen.’

‘I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t an inconvenience, but that’s what slaves are there for, right? To be inconvenienced.’

‘Is dinner ruined?’

‘Oh, Lawsy, no!’ She beamed. ‘Youse dealin’ wif a pro, Miz Hannah.’

I laughed out loud. ‘How on earth do you manage to keep a sense of humor with all the thankless, back-breaking work we ask you to do?’

Karen shrugged her broad shoulders. ‘It is what it is.’

‘When this gig is over, Karen, have your girl call my girl. We’ll do lunch.’

I trotted up to the library and sat down at the desk, grateful that everyone else seemed to be occupied, so I had the room to myself, except for the watchful eye of the SelectoZoomMini, of course. I made an elaborate show of extracting a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer and smoothing it out on the blotter. A small glass vase held three goose quill pens. I took my time selecting one of them, then uncapped the ink bottle. I dipped the pen in, and began to write, carefully at first, keeping my pressure light so the ink wouldn’t squirt out all over the page on the first ‘D’ of Dear Paul. One line, then two, using round letters, drawing rather than writing them.

After thirty minutes, I was done.

I waited for the ink to fully dry, then folded the letter once and tucked it into my pocket. Aiming a self-satisfied smile at the camera, I left the room.

Outside, in the privacy of the privy, I started at the narrow end, rolling the paper up carefully. I inserted it into the bottle where it uncurled, filling the bottle. A tear-jerker by Nicholas Sparks; a song by The Police; instructions to my husband. They were all messages in a bottle.

A few minutes later I stood in the wilderness area of the garden, past the bee hives, behind the spring house, nestling the bottle in one of the vertical slits in William Paca’s brick wall. If Paul found the note as planned – rather than some curious tourist – he’d know exactly what I planned to do.

‘Life without my laptop totally sucks!’

Michael Rainey, tutor

It was four o’clock before we sat down to dinner. I’d intended to tell the family about Amy right away, but Jack had received another message from Founding Father that sent him off on a dissertation that lasted until the soup bowls were cleared away. There was to be a meeting of his compatriots at Middleton Tavern in the morning. Things weren’t looking good for the owner of the Peggy Stewart and its cargo.

When Jack wound down, Michael Rainey seized the opportunity to discuss the children’s progress with their lessons. ‘While Gabe excels in mathematics, Melody fairly dazzles us with her Greek. These abilities are natural, sir, but need to be nurtured once this…’ He waved a fork. ‘… this experiment is over.’

‘ Ánthrōpos métron ,’ Melody said, as if to prove Rainey’s point.

Her proud father beamed. ‘What does that mean, Melody?’

‘Roughly translated, “Man is the measure of all things.”’

Jack’s head bobbed. ‘So very true.’

Just then, Jeffrey appeared at my elbow proffering the sauce-boat. I waggled my fingers over my plate to let him know that I’d like some gravy on my duck, please, and a bit on the roasted potatoes, too, then took a deep breath and said, ‘Mr Donovan, there’s something I need to tell you.’

Jack paused, a forkful of meat half way to his mouth. ‘Yes?’

‘My lady’s maid, Amy Cornell. She’s gone.’

For a long moment, Jack considered me over the top of the gleaming candelabra that stood on the table between us, partially blocking our view of one another. A flash of movement in the corner by the buffet let me know that Derek had taken notice, too. Jack rested his fork on his plate, crossed it with his knife, giving me his full attention. ‘Gone, madam? What do you mean, gone?’

I decided to skip the part where I was in collusion with Amy at St Anne’s, but I didn’t want to lie, so I said, ‘When we got back to the house after church, I went to Amy’s room to see how she was feeling, but she wasn’t there. I’ve looked everywhere, Mr Donovan – throughout the house, in the garden, in the summer house, even in the necessary. I don’t know where she is.’

Jack leaned back in his chair, tented his fingers on his chest and flexed them, like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well.’

Melody made a little peep ; Gabe said, ‘Can I have some more meat, please?’ but the rest of us sat there in stunned silence.

Jack’s gaze swept around the table. ‘Do any of you know anything about this?’

A chorus of noes, uh-uhs, and no-sirs.

Jack turned to Derek. ‘You?’

Derek shook his head, red light on his camera relentlessly winking.

While Jack was interrogating everyone with his eyes, I turned to Alex Mueller. His deer-in-the-headlights expression said it all – he had no idea where Amy was, either.

Michael Rainey was the first to speak up. ‘If you’d like my observations, sir, Amy seemed to have a lot on her mind recently. The one-year anniversary of her husband’s death in Swosa is coming up, and I think it’s fair to say she’s been a bit melancholy of late.’

Melancholy. I hadn’t heard anyone use that word in years, but it was a perfect fit. Gloomy, sad, down in the dumps, depressed . Amy had been all those, true, but not for the reasons everyone thought.

Jack nodded sagely. ‘Yes, yes. I remember how affected she was by that love song several weeks ago. I thought it was merely, you know, her time of the month.’

‘Daddy!’ Melody snapped.

Her father raised a conciliatory hand. ‘Sorry. I was out of line.’

Melody scowled, not the least mollified.

‘I’m quite sure Amy will be back,’ Alex cut in; desperation tinged his voice. ‘Do we have to report it?’

‘I believe we already have.’ Jack pointed to Derek, who had moved from the corner of the buffet to a spot over by the door, presumably to better zoom in on our reactions.

‘I believe she’ll be back, too,’ I stated with more confidence than I felt. ‘But it will be up to Founding Father to decide what to do with her when she does.’

‘She’s in breach of contract,’ Michael added. ‘It might not be pretty.’

Jack’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘Do we need to request another lady’s maid, madam, or can you manage as we are?’

I folded my hands in my lap, squeezing hard, thinking. I risked a furtive sideways glance at Melody, who had sucked in her lips and was shaking her head almost imperceptibly from side to side. If we asked for another maid, there’d be no spot for Amy when – and if – she returned. ‘No, sir,’ I replied. ‘Melody and I can assist one another with our toilette, and French can assume some of Amy’s other duties.’ I paused, then added to emphasize the point, and to keep my options open, ‘For the time being.’

‘Very well. So be it.’ Jack tucked his napkin back into his collar, leaned forward and picked up his knife and fork. He skewered a potato and popped it into his mouth, whole. ‘I’ll miss our little musicales.’