Hester(33)

“Whigs and Democrats had best get along at the banquet his year,” Mrs. Adams announces one afternoon when the shop is empty. “For no matter a father’s politics, daughters are in need of husbands.”

While gossip and fashion make up most of what I hear at the shop, there is universal delight for the fine foods Mr. Remond—a Colored caterer from the islands, they call him, who is also a skilled oysterman, a food importer, and a cook known for outstanding turtle soup—will serve for the banquet. Mr. Remond is a very successful man, unusual for someone of his race, I’ve gathered, and I am alert to his name whenever it is mentioned.

“Don’t forget Mrs. Remond’s cakes,” Mrs. Adams reminds a customer. “You’ll have to leave room for her rich desserts at the end of the night.”

I listen closely, but the gossiping ladies say nothing about Nat Hathorne or his family, though I do learn that Nat’s uncle Robert Manning has planted ten more prize-winning stone fruit trees in his garden.

“Manning’s prices are outrageous,” plump Mrs. Williams says as she stands before the looking glass and admires herself in a new blue day dress. “But I like a freshly picked juicy plum and my husband is not so clever to plant a tree himself.”



* * *



I AM NOT lonely without Edward, as I once feared I might be. Whether there is bitter March rain or weak sun, I wake each morning thinking of Nat—and each day I put his finished handkerchief in my basket and tromp through wet streets hoping to see him again.

More than a week has passed before he finally steps onto Derby Square as I enter from the south. His attention is elsewhere, and I reach his side without his notice.

“Good morning, sir. What occupies your thoughts so deeply?”

I hope that he’ll turn to me in delight. Instead, he is ghost-eyed and his face looks bruised with lack of sleep.

“Ah, Mrs. Gamble.” We fall into step together. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me brooding.”

“Is it your writing?” I’m relieved when he nods, for the moment I asked, I realized he might be troubled by a romance in town that would make my beguilement ridiculous.

“The publisher turned down those first two stories—said he wants something truly American.” Nat keeps his voice low as we turn off the square toward the South Bridge. There are more people here, but they’re shipmen and crew, strangers who take no notice of us.

“And what is truly American?” I wonder aloud. Before we arrived, I thought the New World was made by and for new people. But here in Salem it seems there is a long requisite of what a person must do, say, and be, in order to be truly American.

“The struggle for democracy is what he’s looking for,” Nat says. “He says everything I need to tell about America’s triumph over tyranny is right here in New England. I’ve got a new idea—stories within a story, a lost manuscript, and something told in a grandfather’s chair—tales that have both the ring of truth and the spirit of magic, if I can do it.”

“Truth and triumph seem easy enough.” I mean to encourage him. “And easier than the witch trials or magic, I’d guess.”

He stops at the top of Fish Street, where men are already laying out nets with the morning’s silvery catches.

“But truth and triumph aren’t what I’m after,” Nat says. “What’s true is often hidden from sight—religious fervor disguises cruelty, dark desires hide behind a mask of conformity.”

Yes, I want to say, I’m very aware that the truth is too often concealed by good manners and a masked face.

“Why not write of goodness?” I ask. “Surely there’s also true goodness in Salem, and I imagine it’s far easier to write than darkness.”

He scowls.

“Goodness doesn’t make exciting stories. It’s not like needlework, where pleasantry is the goal.”

His words sting.

“There’s more to dressmaking and needlework than pleasantry.” My voice is sharper than I intend. “Every woman has secrets, and it’s the dressmaker’s job to keep them—to use her skills to make an unattractive woman beautiful or a plump woman appear neat and trim. To hide what might otherwise bring mockery or shame.”

That familiar half-smile tugs at his mouth, nearly lifting away the furrow in his brow.

“You always intrigue me, Mrs. Gamble.”

His words unnerve me further.

“I only mean for you to see that the needle is artistry, too,” I say. “There’s struggle in my work as well.”

“I’ll admit the domestic arts have merit,” he says. “But what secret struggles women have, I can only guess at.”

I reach into my basket for his folded handkerchief and press it into his hand.

“I’ve done as you asked and stitched your initials and the flowers on your handkerchief. I hope you find them pleasant,” I say. He looks at me as if he knows I have secrets—but if he thinks I’m going to share more with him now, he’s wrong. “And now, sir, I’m off to the shop.”

“Wait,” he calls, but I toggle around a woman with a cart and walk away just as abruptly as he left me on the distillery alley, for he has stung me more than I care for him to know. Then again, there’s his smile, his expression. You intrigue me. No man has ever paid me a more compelling compliment or gazed at me with so much wonder.