Gifts from the Sea by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock Read Free Book Online Page B

Margaret, little as she was, was struggling with carrying the water from the cistern. Papa lugged the pails for her, then carried the basket to the clothesline, where I pegged up the wet clothes.
    “You never helped Mama with the laundry,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.
    “Your mother didn't need help,” Papa said. “She was strong. Margaret's not like her.”
    No, she's not, I wanted to shout, but bit my lip and pulled another sheet from the basket. The wind tried to tear it from my hands, so Papa grabbed one end and held it until I could get both corners pegged tight.
    “When did you get so tall?” he asked. He was frowning, looking at me like he hadn't seen me for a long time. “You look just like your mother.”
    I'm ashamed to admit that my heart sank at his words. I'd loved Mama with all my heart, but she'd said herself she was as plain as a hedge fence. I'd never seen a hedge, or a fence, either one, but I knew it wasn't a compliment. Mama's beauty was inside.
    Papa smiled, not knowing the thoughts in my head.
    “As pretty as the day I met her,” he added.
    I sighed.
    “Mama wasn't pretty, Papa,” I said.
    Papa looked like I'd slapped him.
    “She was to me,” he said. In that moment, I forgave him everything.
    Or I thought I had until he started lingering over his breakfast tea, telling Margaret stories of hischildhood at sea: of stowing away on a ship to Singapore, of being shipwrecked on an island for three weeks with nothing to eat but coconuts, of seeing icebergs and polar bears in the North Sea and coral reefs and rainbow-colored fish in the warm waters of the Southern Hemisphere. I stared at him in astonishment, for I could scarcely believe those stories were true. All those years of hearing Mama's stories—and even the past two years with Celia, when I'd tried to remember every story I'd ever heard and made up a great many, to keep Celia happy—he'd never breathed a word about his childhood, never let on that he'd had one great adventure after another. It was like meeting a stranger, like watching Rip Van Winkle emerge from his twenty-year sleep, except Papa seemed almost boyish, lighthearted, with something that had been missing in him since Mama died. And it was Margaret that was bringing that out in him, not me.
    “I didn't know your father was such a storyteller,” Margaret said.
    Neither did I, I thought bitterly.
    Margaret was a good storyteller, too, almost as good at weaving tales as Mama had been, and thoughI pretended not to care for Margaret's stories, I always sat close enough to hear her tell of Grace O'Malley, the Irish queen who was a sea pirate. Mama had told me about Blackbeard, but I'd never heard of a woman pirate before.
    “She even stole a baby,” Margaret said. “She'd come ashore to get supplies of food and water for her ship, and stopped at Howth Castle. The family was eating and wouldn't let her in. Grace was so angry, she stole their son and sailed away with him. She only returned the boy when Lord Howth promised to keep the castle gates open at mealtimes and to always set a place at the head of the table for the head of the O'Malley clan.”
    Papa laughed, again something I'd not seen from him since Mama died, but I couldn't help thinking that Margaret was a bit of a pirate herself, for soon she'd be stealing Celia away from us.
    It wasn't the only thing she was taking, for when I looked next in Mama's wardrobe, three more of her dresses were missing, including the green delaine. I didn't mention it to Papa; he'd told her she could have them. But it seemed like stealing to me.
    I started to let go of Celia, preparing myself for the day she would leave. I was less patient, snapping at her when she climbed into my lap wanting a story. “I don't have time for you right now. Have Margaret read to you.” Her green eyes would well up with tears, and I'd have to turn away so she wouldn't see my own.
    At the same time I was pushing her away, I found it harder and