Hester(30)

“Where did you come from?” Miss Cranford demands.

“Scotland. I arrived two weeks ago on the New Harmony with Captain William Darling. My husband is an apothecary—a doctor.”

She shoves the cape into my hands, steps to the door, and opens it.

“Good day to you,” she says. All eyes are on me. “Be on your way now,” she adds.

I leave in a jumble of confusion and shame and firmly vow to keep my cloak and my secrets at home from now on, where they cannot be judged.

I am only a few steps away when Nell calls after me.

“Wait!”

She has run from the shop, yellow curls bouncing free of the pinned white cap.

“Not everyone is so wicked to us,” she says, bounding up to me.

“Us?”

“Lasses from Ireland and Scotland. Newcomers. Outsiders.”

“But this is the New World—isn’t everyone new here?”

“Not if your family has been here for generations. Salem is an old, odd place, not welcoming to outsiders.” She tries to tuck her wild curls back into place. “But I’m very glad you’re here. Come see me at the Silas house—knock at the kitchen door and ask for Nell.”



* * *



FELICITY ADAMS’S PIECE goods shop is located in a ten-by-ten hut that’s been expanded into an alley off Essex Street. There’s a bolt of black silk in the window, and the woman who looks up when I enter has a round, smooth face that reminds me of the moon.

“Good morning to you,” she says. “How may I help?”

“I’m told you are in need of a stitcher.” I try to take the thick brogue out of my tongue and curtsy. “And I’d like to apply for the position.”

I see the woman hesitate and quickly say what I preferred to avoid.

“The Widow Higgins sent me. She said I am skilled.”

Mrs. Adams is neither friendly nor hostile, merely all business.

“Show me these skills.”

I turn my back as I remove my cape and fold it onto the bench, then stand to show her the details on my dress and the stitching in the hem and petticoats. I talk about my aunt’s shop in Baggar as if I were there only a few short months ago—it’s not entirely honest, but I must do what I can to find a foothold in Salem.

“Ladies come from as far as Boston for my dresses,” Mrs. Adams says. “Discretion is just as important as careful tailoring.”

“It’s what I taught myself above all,” I tell her. “Discretion and the ability to conceal a woman’s imperfections.”

Soon we’ve agreed that I’ll be a stitcher and a pinner, and if she’s in great need I may also serve as a cutter. For my labor I will be paid a modest wage of ten pence for an afternoon, twenty for a day.

“One more thing, if I may.”

I show her my mother’s gloves and the lady listens to my proposal. Then she gives me three pair of unadorned gloves.

“You’re correct, Mrs. Gamble, men and ladies will want new decorative gloves for the Light Infantry banquet. They won’t think of it until the heat breaks, but we must have a longer plan.”

I’m pleased that I’ve already begun to think as the proprietress of a shop might.

“I’ll bring them to you when I’ve finished all three pair,” I say.

“I’d like them by April first.” Her sharp tone takes me by surprise.

“I’ll need a little more time,” I stammer.

“April third and no later,” she says. “Bring me a selection then.”

“Yes, ma’am. You may decide for yourself which are worthy.”

“There is no question—I will take only the best.”



* * *



AS I AMBLE along Essex Street, my burden feels lighter and it seems the sun is shining for the first time in days. I’ve walked only a short way when I pass the Manning stagecoach offices and then Nat Hathorne himself is in front of me, hands shoved into his pockets.

“What brings you this way, Mrs. Gamble?” He’s shy but cheerful. Whatever sent him reeling away when we last parted is gone now.

“I’ve just taken a position at Felicity Adams’s shop,” I tell him, but what I really want to say is that my husband is a wretch; he stole my gold and forced me to take up labor for pennies.

“That is a good bit of news.” He points a thumb behind him toward the office and stables, from which there is the distinct odor of manure. “I help here with the books and horses.”

The stagecoach belongs to his uncles, Nat says. “My mother’s brothers, a funny lot of fellows,” he adds with good humor—and I tell him I’m to be a stitcher for Mrs. Adams.

“But you’re a dressmaker.” He remembers. “Has she seen what you can do?”

“I’ll decorate gloves for her, too.” I rush to say it, for I don’t want him to pity me. I don’t want folks knowing I’m in a precarious situation. “I hope to do much more one day. But the gloves are a quiet agreement—you mustn’t speak of it, even if it is hard to keep a secret here.”

He tips his head in that way he does, as if studying something that only he can see.

“I can keep secrets,” he says.