Free The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda Page A

instrument tipped and pointed toward the window. I followed, staring out through the wavy glass pane.
    The mail wagon was rounding the bend toward Father’s mailbox. To my chagrin, the postman began ringing a bell to herald the arrival of the much-awaited RFD service. As if in response, Father’s ship’s bell clanged as well. It would only be a matter of time before Uncle Victor went to investigate the cacophony.
    There was a knock on my door, followed by Addie’s voice.
    â€œHere you go, darlin’,” she called. “I’ve got yer breakfast tray ready for ye.”
    I rushed to the door and pressed my lips against the keyhole.
    â€œAddie,” I whispered, the desperation somehow carrying my hushed voice out to her. “Addie, be very quiet! Don’t say anything that will arouse their attention!”
    I was met with silence.
    â€œAddie!” I said, as loud as I dared. “Addie?”
    â€œYes, Lucy,” she whispered, the touch of her Irish brogue returning as it did whenever she was upset or riled up, “I hear ye. What are ye all worked up about, child? Stop tinkerin’ with that flute, and explain yourself!”
    I peered through the keyhole at her neat blue skirts. This calmed me somewhat.
    â€œAddie, I can’t explain just now.” I glanced back toward the window. The cloud of mist was swirling furiously around and over the windowsill. The flute tootled and trilled excitedly. “Just listen to me. I need you to keep Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret busy for the next few minutes.”
    â€œBut what d’ye mean, Lucy? I—”
    I sighed impatiently, the sound of the mail-wagon bell growing more insistent.
    â€œAddie, you must trust me! I’ll explain it all toyou later, you have my word. But right now it could be a matter of life and death....” I gulped at my own exaggeration, although it did indeed feel that important. “You just need to keep them distracted for a few minutes!”
    I could almost see Addie on the other side of the door gripping the breakfast tray, glancing nervously down the stairs, biting her bottom lip.
    â€œBut, Lucy,” she began, “I don’t know....”
    â€œJust think of something !” I whispered. “Anything at all. Please! ” If I could have opened the door and given her a shake, I would have.
    There was a pause before I heard the crash of the tray on the stairs and Addie’s voice calling out.
    â€œOh my stars! Oh good heavens! Mrs. Simmons, would ye look at what I’ve done now!” she shouted. I heard the scrambling of feet on the stairs, a confused jumble of angry voices.
    I didn’t wait an instant before dashing to the window. The misty vapor cascaded over the ledge and illuminated the side of the house below.
    Of course! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it! Beneath my window hung one of Father’s large, sturdy nets, which was once strung between the masts of his great ship. This was another of Father’s keepsakes from his sailing days, another bit of seafaring memorabilia that graced our home. Theexpanse of thick rope and fat knots had created a grid of footholds for Father’s crewmen to scramble across. In the decade since Father left the high seas, the net had served as a curious kind of trellis, with wisteria, rather than sailors’ feet, creeping up knot by knot toward the sky.
    With scarcely a thought, I swung one leg over the ledge and searched with my foot for the top of the net. Encumbered and greatly exasperated by my full skirts, I hastily grabbed the hem with one hand and shamelessly shoved it into the waistband of my wide white bloomers.
    In this way (much like a stuffed pillow), I made my way down the net, the scratchy rope chafing against my palms, my neat black button shoes slipping and sliding along the ropes. I had hardly a thought as to the safety of this escapade, for only the clanging of the mail-wagon bell