Hester(15)

Now the captain is angry—he swings at one of the boys, then the others. They scatter like beetles, each in a different direction.

The Widow Higgins regains herself and sits up.

“She’ll be fine now,” the young woman says.

Edward nods and rises from the rough boards. A hard wind blows, and when I look again, the tall man with the book is staring at me from the same distance of some thirty or forty meters. My red cape is flapping open in the breeze and his gaze seems fixed on the figures I’ve sewn there.

I tug the cape closed—the stories from home are meant for me alone—and lock my eyes upon his. Edward once said I was fearless, and I believe he made me so. If this man thinks I will shy under the power of his stare, he is wrong. I don’t look away until the captain takes my arm and breaks the spell.

“Now we eat and secure lodging,” Darling says. “I’m sorry that was your welcome, we’ll have to do better, lass.”

When I look again, the caped man is gone.



* * *



EDWARD SLAPS CAPTAIN Darling on the back and we make our way through the throngs on the wharf street.

We’re in a marketplace filled with carts, sailcloth awnings, and wagons from which men and women hawk vegetables—some I recognize, but many I do not—fruits and nuts, silver fish, black iron pots, shoes with buckles and shoes with hooks, ladies’ silk slippers, clay plates and jugs laid out upon a fat open ladder. A brown-skinned woman, wrapped in a colorful cocoon of cloth, squats on a blanket beside burlap sacks filled with fragrant spices and calls out, “Tasty, tasty,” her words thick with another language.

A dark-skinned woman with a white turban covering her hair stands behind a bench spread with sashes and belts and small piles of brown eggs. Her sashes are embellished with flowers, her belts embroidered with berries, lanterns, ships, horses, and trees that seem to dance or move with the light.

In the twining ivy stitched in shades of green upon one of her shawls, I see strange letters folded together, as if the letter S—lilac to my eye—has been crossed with the orange letter F over and again, almost like men running. A shift of my gaze and there is the word SAFE rising and falling inside the shape of a lantern. The threads are all one color, but what I see is a lilac S, red A, pumpkin-orange F, and green E.

I run my tongue along my teeth, trying to decide if the woman has done this bit with her threads intentionally—and quickly determine it must be my imagination, a trick of light playing upon my colors. I have been too long at my needle and too long at sea. I must be careful lest what’s real and what’s only my imagination become so tangled that I betray myself in word or deed.

“Captain.” The Black woman nods, and Darling returns the greeting.

“Come along.” Edward tugs at me and I stumble. Darling catches and steadies me in one motion.

“It’ll take a while to lose your sea legs,” Darling says, as if he hasn’t noticed Edward’s roughness. He keeps me steady at his side as he greets friends and points out several shops. Despite his limp Edward stays a few steps ahead, marching with the determination of a thirsty man toward a tavern.

“And there’s the East India Marine Society Hall.” Captain Darling indicates a tall building with high glass windows overlooking the harbor. “You must see what’s inside, Mrs. Gamble—I’ll give you a letter of introduction, it’s a house of wonders.”

We’ve just turned onto a cobbled street with our backs to the sea when the tall man in the long black cape lopes toward us. His hands are empty now and there’s a lump beneath his cape where he’s slung a leather bag across one shoulder.

“Welcome back to Salem, Captain Darling.” The man’s words are pale red trimmed with gold, like a prince’s old, furred vestment.

“Hail to you, Mr. Hathorne,” the captain answers without slowing. “I’ve brought new books from London—they should be at Mrs. Batchelder’s shop by Thursday.”

Hathorne’s face lights up, but just as quickly he seems to tuck away his delight. I see he’s younger and more robust than his gait suggested before, perhaps not more than five-and-twenty. His features are strong and pleasing, but his voice is gentle.

“I hope I’ll have coin enough for one,” Hathorne says. His eye catches mine and when he sees me startle, a small smile teases at his lips. “Especially if there’s something exciting in the lot.”

The book at his nose, the tender hitch to his step, the lament of coin, and the colors of his voice all suggest a faded prince of Salem. A caped man with longings and dreams.

“I’m sure you’ll find something.” Captain Darling doesn’t linger long enough to make an introduction, and in a few more paces Mr. Hathorne has left my sight and the captain is leading us up a step into the Charter Ale House.



* * *



THE ALEHOUSE IS dark and warm with polished walnut booths and the cheerful clang of pots and spoons. Darling leads us to a booth tucked in the back, and no sooner are we seated than two American seamen step up to greet him. The captain gives them details of our crossing, then lifts his shirtwaist to show the fresh scar on his belly.

“Dr. Edward Gamble and his wife saved my life,” he says. “I’ll be damned if she didn’t stitch me up with Scottish muslin.”