Hester(34)

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“I SAW YOU this morning with Nathaniel Hathorne,” Abigail says after Mrs. Adams has left for the day. “There’s something odd about him, don’t you agree?”

I’m on my knees helping her assemble a chambray day dress. There are pins between my lips, and I cannot reply.

“He’s a cardplayer and a bit of a recluse,” Abigail continues.

What can she have seen? We exchanged only a few words; I gave him his handkerchief and quickly parted. I was ruffled; perhaps she noticed?

“Awkward and silent in company, too.” Abigail rotates the dress form and cinches the waist for a pleated skirt, then snaps her fingers for more pins.

She’s perhaps a year older than me, the youngest daughter of a butcher in Marblehead. Her face is pink from the beef scrapple she brings to eat each day, but she’s not a stupid girl.

“He writes stories, they say. I’ve seen him waiting for the postmaster, holding his package to his chest as if he can’t bear to let it go,” Abigail goes on. “The older sister got her heart broke by a violin player and stopped taking callers. It’s a strange family.”

I spit the pins into my palm and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Mr. Hathorne is handsome.” I mean to tease more out of her and so I say it plainly. “You must have noticed.”

She blushes.

“You’ve noticed—of course you have.” Abigail isn’t betrothed, nor do I think she has a beau. “I’m a married woman, Abigail. You may have Mr. Hathorne for yourself—there’s no need to scare me off with talk of his strangeness.”

Her blush raises up a line of freckles across her nose.

“He’ll never court a butcher’s daughter,” she says. “The Hathornes are one of Salem’s oldest families, and that matters here.”

“Don’t be certain,” I say, although I’m fairly confident he won’t court Abigail. “I think a young lady with a fine imagination and a tasteful wardrobe will suit him best.”

“A young lady with a tasteful wardrobe and a large dowry,” she says. “The Hathornes have come down in the world—the name alone won’t keep them from poverty. It’s all on Nathaniel.”

“I believe his uncles run a coach line?”

“But they’re not generous. Nathaniel and his sisters are poor—people say it’s the curse.”

“The curse?” The chambray is pinned, and I stand to brush out my skirts. I’ve worked at the shop less than a week, but I already know that Abigail is a girl with many silly superstitions.

“Haven’t you heard about the ladies hanged in Salem?” she asks.

Is it better to admit knowledge or pretend ignorance? It’s no matter, for Abigail keeps talking without waiting for my reply.

“My granny told me the story when I was a girl—said folks in Salem lost their minds and blamed witchcraft and Devil worship on innocent souls. It was madness and greed, Granny said. They killed more than a dozen women, took their property, too.”

“What has that to do with Mr. Hathorne?”

She looks up from the work, and her eyes are very clear.

“Hathorne’s great-great-grandsire was a judge at the witch trials, Isobel. Condemned innocent women to their deaths and watched them hang with no regrets. One of them screamed from the gallows: ‘A curse on you and your children and your children’s children—you’ll all die with blood in your throats.’”

I shiver. Nat spoke of the women who were hanged, but he said nothing of his ancestor’s part in it.

“The family suffers for it,” Abigail adds. “You can see it on him, I think that’s what makes him queer—his cursed bloodline.”

Is it true? Is this what drives Nat to darkness?

“But if the women weren’t witches, then how could the bloodline be cursed?” I ask. I fear being found out for my own colors and ancestry. “And even if it is true, the curse is no fault of his.” I’m busy wrapping up the salvage cloth and try not to sound too keen about her gossip.

“I suppose not,” she says.

“And you do think he’s handsome, don’t you?”

She blushes.

“I imagine he’ll be attending the Light Infantry celebrations,” I venture. “Perhaps he’d escort you.”

Abigail laughs, and I believe I’ve hidden my strain.

“I hope I’ll have an escort, but it won’t be Mr. Hathorne.”

She describes the new gown she’s planning for the banquet: magenta silk and ivory taffeta with a cinched waist, and a new hat with flowers to match.

“And gloves,” she says. “I’d like a special pair of gloves. Maybe I can buy yours.”

“Felicity’s price is very dear, I fear.”

“Then will you teach me?”

“If there is time,” I say. “And if we can hide it from Mrs. Adams.”

I don’t tell her that I’m still teaching myself how to embroider on gloves. Or that the rose petals I tried were small and clumsy, the hibiscus blossom too sprawling. I’ll have to do better, and soon.

Pleasantry, as Nat said, won’t make my name in Salem.



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