"Andre Norton - The Opal-Eyed Fan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

"It was a bad reef the Arrow got hooked on," Molly continued. "Though Captain Leverett thinks
they might be able to pull the ship off once she's lightened of cargo. They've been bringing in stuff out of
the hold since last night."
"Wreckers!" Persis sniffed.
"We was right glad to see them, Miss Persis. It's these wreckers as save ships, lives, too. And Captain
Leverett, he's a proper gentleman. Gave orders to get the doctor for Mr. Augustin. There's a real doctor liv-ing here,
though he don't do much doctoring anymore. Seems he's more interested in planting things to watch 'em grow, or so
Mrs. Pryor says. But he ain't forgot his doctoring when there's a need for it. He said as how Mr. Augustin has had a
bad shock, and the wetting didn't do him no good neither. He looked at you, too, Miss Persis. Seems like when you fell
into the boat you got a knock on the head. But he said that was no great matter—just to let you sleep it off."
"I—" Persis pushed impatiently at her tangled hair. The past few days had been a bad dream. First the awful
seasickness which had kept her captive in her cabin in spite of all her will to conquer it—then the ter-ror of being
tossed about in the storm—the final shud-dering crash—
"You'll be all right, Miss Persis. And Miss Lydia, the Captain's own sister, is lending you some clothes. I'll go
and get 'em. That there dress you had on is ruined. But first—" Molly went out to get a tray on which was a mug, with
a saucer set on top of it, and alongside a respectable silver spoon.
"They've a real good cook here," the maid an-nounced. There was satisfaction in her praise, for Molly and
Uncle Augustin's cook were old enemies, enjoying a feud Persis sometimes suspected was high-ly satisfactory to
both. "This broth has real body to it. You get that inside you, Miss Persis, and you'll feel a lot better. You look washed
out."
Persis averted her eyes from the mirror. Washed out was a very mild term for what she saw there now.
 "I look worse than that," she agreed with dismal frankness as she picked up the spoon. The liquid in the mug
did smell good and, for the first time in days, she felt hungry instead of squeamish.
"My trunk is down there—" she gestured to the win-dow. "Can you get them to bring it up? I'd rather wear
my own things."
She had fretted so over those dresses since Uncle Augustin had suddenly decided to make this trip to the
Bahamas where it was supposed to be so very much warmer, that the heavy silks and woolens one needed in New
York would not be proper. She had had such a difficulty shopping for muslins, a light silk or two at the beginning of
the fall season. The whole con-tents of that trunk were the result of much time and effort. And she had had to be very
careful in the cost of her selections because Uncle Augustin's affairs were in such a muddle after the disastrous fire
last year when half of the city had gone up in flames.
"Them things'll all need washing and tendin' to," Molly announced. "So you'll have to wait on wearin' 'em."
She eyed her mistress measuringly. "Miss Lydia, now, she's a might fuller at the waist—for all her lac-ing—but not too
much."
Persis sighed; now she was going to hear Molly's standard comments on her own deficiencies.
"I know I'm as thin as a rail. But I'm just made that way, Molly, no matter how much I eat. All right—it's plain
I'll have to wear something and if Miss Leverett is kind enough to offer, I must be gracious enough to accept."
But she was not. Persis hated the thought of wear-ing someone else's clothing. Such a small thing to trouble
her when she ought just to be glad they were safe. One thing she was sure of—to go to sea again (if the Arrow was
ever patched up or they were offered other transportation) was going to require all the for-titude she could
summon.
Two hours later she was more at ease with herself and her world. A slim black girl brought in cans
of hot water and Molly had washed all the salt stickiness out of her hair, brushing and toweling it dry. She
was laced into a muslin far more elaborate in trimming than any from her own trunk. In fact, suited for at
least a for-mal tea drinking.
The gown was lemon colored (to compliment her own brown hair and rather sallow skin) with the
fash-ionable full sleeves, tight from shoulder to elbow and then billowing out in twin puffs of undersleeves of
lace. A cobweb-fine lace edged the cape-wide bertha. And the neckline had a turndown collar finished off
with a bow. There was even an apron of sheer muslin with a deeply ruched border.
Molly had skillfully braided her hair into the up-standing loops on the top of her head, though her