Hester(25)

“Polynesia,” I recall Captain Darling telling me, “rhymes with amnesia, because they say that when you visit that island, you forget everything else you ever loved.”

Blinding sunlight floods through the windows. I peer over the staircase and see Mr. Saul bent over his ledger. I’m alone. I slip the tambour hook from my cape and use the sharp tip to pick open the locked cabinet door. It springs easily, and I’m able to slip my hand inside the case. The canvas hangs from a large metal pole. I hear only the pounding of my own heartbeat as I begin to lift up a corner of the piece. The canvas moves slowly. Only a few more inches and I’ll be able to see the back and learn the secrets of stitching and design that were used in its creation.

There’s a step behind me, and I freeze.

“I’ve always wanted to see the back of this piece.”

It is Nat Hathorne. Again.

Has he followed me? I’m exhilarated and embarrassed to think he’s been watching me among the display cases.

“You must be quiet,” I whisper. Below, I hear the custodian cough and his keys jingle. “Please.”

Hathorne nods. He’s close beside me, all warmth and heat. I raise the tapestry high enough to see that the back stitches are the mirror inverse of the front, equally bold and vivid, alive in the canvas itself. Satisfied, I let the tapestry return to its place and hold my breath as the latch clicks shut. Then I quickly tie the knot in my shirtwaist and grab for my cape.

When I return the tambour hook to the hidden pocket, Mr. Hathorne’s eyes dart to the colors and scenes in my cloak, the blue water and white-and-gray rocks, the red comet streaking across the Scottish skies.

“Halloo?” the custodian calls from the bottom of the stairway. “Mrs. Gamble? Mr. Hathorne?” His voice comes closer as he climbs the open staircase. “It is almost one o’clock, I’ll be closing up shortly for the dinner hour.”

Instinctively we move away from one another. When Mr. Saul reaches the landing, his face is flush.

“There you are,” he says. “You’re quiet as two church mice.”

“Except no one is stealing the cheese.” Hathorne’s mouth twitches and I’m afraid that he’ll laugh—or, worse, betray me.

“We’ll have no stealing here,” the custodian says without a hint of ill will. “Although we do have a good number of mice, I’m afraid. Got to be careful they’re not nibbling at the treasures.”

The custodian looks behind me in the general direction of the leopard tapestry.

“Is that your bonnet, Mrs. Gamble?”

I’m terrified that I’ve left behind some sign of my indiscretion, but when he smiles it’s clear there’s nothing amiss, and I snatch up my gloves and hurry down the stairs so I’m first out the door.



* * *



I’M RUSHING AWAY from the waterfront when Mr. Hathorne catches up with me. He’s a good deal taller than I am, and easily matches my pace.

“Please wait.” His voice is more pleading than commanding. I notice his worn boots, mud-splattered and old.

“Why are you following me?” I’m addled and embarrassed. I broke the rules, and he witnessed it.

“I believe it’s I who should be questioning you,” he says. “What did you intend to do with the tapestry?”

“I only wanted to see what was on the back of the material, to see how the work was done.” My words are defensive, my fingers already tracing out the leopard and palm trees.

“Why?” He sounds more curious than angry.

“I’m a needlewoman and a dressmaker.” If Edward is a doctor, then I’m a dressmaker.

“Then the scenes in the cape are your work?”

Once again, I’ve forgotten what my cape reveals. I try to hold it close, but I’m walking fast and it flaps open and shut, open and shut.

“Yes, they are.”

“You wave your cape the way a lady at a party waves her fan—”

“I don’t go to parties where ladies wave fans.”

“Good Lord, nor do I.” His exclamation is loud, almost funny. “Parlors and gatherings with cocktail napkins are enough to put me into a faint.”

This makes me smile, and at the curve of my lips he leaps ahead of me.

“Please slow down.”

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I say, but he puts an arm behind his waist and offers that charming gesture of a bow.

“Nathaniel Hathorne. Of the Salem Hathorne and Manning families.”

His eyes from this angle are the color of honey in a glass jar.

“Why are you following me, Mr. Hathorne?”

“I’m the one who told you to visit the Marine Society,” he says. “I go almost every day—I didn’t follow you there—after all, it’s a private place, how did you even get inside?”

“Captain Darling gave me a letter of introduction, but that’s no matter. You’re following me now.” We lock eyes; he will not deny it. There is something in this exchange, some brightness that makes me feel buoyant. “And you stared at me on the wharf the day we arrived.”

“You’re a bold woman, Mrs. Gamble.” He says it with some admiration, as if he assumes I’ve always been a woman who unlocks display cases with my sewing tool and speaks freely to handsome young men. “Especially bold for a newcomer whose husband has just gone off to sea.”