Hester(29)

“If you need work, look to the fabric mills in Lowell,” Newell yells as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “They take plenty of your kind.”

In a flash I smell the dust of the Glasgow factory, feel the dark of the long hall where girls as small as Ivy trudge between the machines to change and reel the bobbins. Nat’s warning about judgment in Salem echoes as I go.



* * *



ACROSS THE WAY at Chaise & Harness, a fair and pretty woman tells me she has no use for my skills or services. She has a child in a cradle beside the hearth and milk stains on her shirtwaist. The young mother—or perhaps she is a wet nurse, I cannot be sure—has enough goodwill to suggest I call on the Cranford sisters, who work up past High Street in the direction of Marblehead.

“They often supply gentlemen with gloves for fine occasions,” she says. “And you might try Mr. Remond at Hamilton Hall—sometimes he takes a chance with outsiders like yourself.”

The Cranford shop is in a house with two large windows, one displaying a handsome black day dress, the other a gown made with cabbage-rose damask and a sweetheart neckline. The shop smells of newly cut cloth and a steaming iron press. The interior is clean and fine, with a form for fitting in one corner and a millinery selection of bonnets and caps with feathers, flowers, and colorful netting.

A servant girl is sitting on a stool working a bit of white cloth in an embroidery hoop. Her thick yellow curls are pinned into a white maid’s cap, and she smiles when I enter.

“The ladies are busy, but you may wait.” She has a strong Irish lilt, and her words are green as the great meadows. “I’m with Mrs. Silas,” she adds. “I’m her lady’s maid.”

I take a seat opposite her on a small tufted bench.

“I’m in no hurry,” I say.

The girl’s face lights.

“You’re a Scot! Where are you from? What’s your name?” Before I can answer, she rushes on. “I’m Nell—come from Cork County in Ireland with my aunt and cousin six years ago. They’ve gone to Philadelphia, but I’m happy with the Silas family and I’ve got a beau—a dairyman. Stephen’s the reason I stayed.”

When she finally stops to breathe, I tell her my name and that I’m new to Salem.

“I’m living at the Widow Higgins’s cottage. I have a husband and he is already at sea.”

“There are lots of sailor’s widows in Salem,” Nell says. “The wives who get along best are busy with home and children—then there’s no lonely time.”

From the neighboring room, the imperious voice of the shop mistress rises. She’s directing an assistant to pin, crimp, measure, and record. I imagine the silent girl on her knees with pins in her mouth.

“Would your Mrs. Silas be the wife of Captain Henry Silas?” I ask. I’ve heard Silas is one of the wealthiest men in Salem.

“The very one.” Nell seems proud. “You don’t need to be long in town before you hear the Silas name and remember it if you’re clever.”

She picks up a needle and hoop and shows me where she’s working the letters HH in a blue thread that fades from dark to light.

“Mrs. Silas lets me make napkins for Mr. Remond at Hamilton Hall,” she says. “He’s in need of two hundred napkins and table coverings for the Light Infantry banquet in October. ’Tis a good way to make extra coin if you’re of a mind.”

There’s a bustle of activity behind the curtain door, and the dressmaker speaks in a strained voice.

“A Sunday dress without a corset isn’t advised.”

“Then I’ll order one to fit with a corset and one without.” Mrs. Silas’s tone is sharp. “And a third for my daughter’s trousseau. Charlotte’s measurements are quite as mine, you know.”

“Very well,” the proprietress says. There’s something coy about her words that I don’t like. “And how is Miss Charlotte enjoying the Middle West?”

“She’s faring well,” Mrs. Silas answers. “They’ve extended the trip by another month to see Indians bring out their kayaks in the spring.”

Talk behind the curtain gives way to the rustle of fabric, and Nell turns to me.

“Are you here to have a dress made?”

“Goodness, no. I’m here with an inquiry for the mistress of the shop.”

I take my mother’s gloves from my basket, and Nell admires the work.

“The details are wonderful,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to a friendly woman my own age since I left home, and I feel trustful enough to open up my cloak.

“This is all done by my hand.” I make sure that only the cottage and the woodlands and the journey across the sea are on display for her. As Nell exclaims over the swirl of water and the shape of the ship, a handsome lady with steel-gray hair and milky skin sweeps through the curtain.

“I am Miss Cranford. Let me see your work.”

I jump up and hold out the cloak. She runs her hands across the stitching before she even looks at it. This is a woman who knows the feel of a seam as it should be, the proper tightness in a stitch, and how to tell a straight and square piece of work simply by holding it.

When she looks at the figures I’ve sewn, a silence descends. She opens the cape fully and studies Isobel Gowdie and the red star streaking across the sky.