Scarborough Fair and Other Stories (28 page)

The waterfront, the road, the shops, all were totally empty of people and cars. I ran along the beach, trying to see, calling for her, but I never saw a sign, not so much as a hand or foot of her or the man she claimed was Eamon. Nor did I see the sark, except perhaps, unknowingly, amid the tossing whitecaps.

Finally, when I'd called all I could and looked until I was certain she was beyond my help, I returned to where I had left the chair, to find that it too had washed away.

I half thought I'd wake in my bed at home, as if I'd lived through a particularly weird and exceptionally wet nightmare, but I was awake and shaking with all-too-real cold by the time I forced my way back through the gale, up the hill to the hotel, which was as close to other people and help as any other place. I rang the bell for the concierge, rang it and rang it but without response.

Daisy. I'd rouse Daisy, I thought. How would I tell her what I had allowed to happen to her sister? I didn't know, and I certainly couldn't explain about sarks and songs and strange military men. But I did have to get help, someone to search for poor Eleanor. Eleanor had told me their room number and I found it and pounded my frozen hands against the wood. The door opened immediately and the night clerk stood there. Beyond her I could see Daisy, sitting forlornly on the bed. “Daisy, I'm sorry, but we have to get the police. Something's happened to Eleanor.”

The concierge just stared at me and I pushed past her to kneel beside Daisy, who seemed not to hear me. “You have to listen to me. Something terrible has happened to Eleanor.”

Daisy shook her head and when she lifted it, I saw that she wore a sad little smile. “Not so terrible, really. It's spared her the indignity of the nursing home. I had no idea you'd be so upset, Ann, or I'd have made sure someone told you. Did you only just hear?”

“Hear nothing, I saw!” I said.

“You've been at the funeral home? Oh, I knew I should have kept vigil but I've been feeling so ill and Eleanor really had no belief in all that superstitious nonsense.”

The concierge was glaring at me. “Miss Scarborough, I think you should return to your own room. I've just given Mrs. Jacobs the sleeping draught the doctor left for her this afternoon when he came to officially declare Miss Porter's death.”

“Death? This afternoon?”

Daisy reached up and touched my sleeve. “Oh, you poor dear, did you think it had only just happened?”

“I did hear sirens,” I admitted.

Daisy nodded and patted my hand. “It must be a great shock to you. Eleanor was enjoying your company so much. You couldn't have known how close she really was to death. Neither of us knew for sure either, of course, but I felt, when she asked to come back here, that it was almost time. Thank you for keeping her such good company on her last day.”

How could I tell them that I'd been with her not an hour ago? That I'd seen--thought I'd seen--her carried away by a wave, and a man. I stumbled for the door like a zombie but Daisy said “Wait,” and turned to the other bed, where she fumbled in an open suitcase.

She held out a worn black and white folder to me. “Scarborough Faire” the heading said. It seemed to be a little pamphlet advertising the event. “This was one of Eleanor's mementos. Since you were both so intrigued with the fair here, I think she'd like you to have it.” She closed my hand around the brochure and I returned to my room.

I just lay there in my wet clothes upon the bed for hours, listening to the hammering wind and rain. At last, the pane of glass began to lighten just a bit, and the wind to subside, enough for me to hear what I thought were voices on it, a tenor and an uncertain alto, singing, “Then you'll be a true love of mine...”

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 1996 by Elizabeth Scarborough

ISBN 978-1-4976-3220-2

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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