Hester(36)

On my way home with the new gloves and sketches, I go out of my way to pass by Hamilton Hall. The doors are shut, but the windows and curtains are open to the April breeze and the sound of merry, industrious voices pours into the street in a collection of bright colors. Through the windows I see men waxing tables and cleaning chairs, women and children polishing candelabras, and a circle of women sewing and ironing. All are dark-skinned like Mercy and Zeke, and soon I have spied my neighbor sitting with a group of women, her needle moving swiftly through a long sash, her face soft with companionship.

Beside a platform stage, a Black man stands with his booted foot upon a low stool, giving directions and encouragement. He holds himself with a noble air and seems to have something kind or friendly to say to everyone. This must be Mr. John Remond, whom the town speaks of with such great respect. As he bends over a child sweeping out a wooden bin, I sense in an instant that Mr. Remond is reliable, capable, and powerfully good. I understand why he is spoken of with such affectionate admiration.

The singsong island voices of the men and ladies stay with me as I reach the corner of Higginson Square and come upon a large, lantern-shaped sign announcing Remond’s Foods & Fancy Cakes.

Fresh cookies and candies: 5 ￠

Oysters: 2$pound 4$bushel

Pheasants: 1$each $10 dozen

Turtle Soup: order 2 weeks ahead, price on request

Cakes: fancy and plain, $1 and up, 2 days advance order

The glass window is piled high with fancy cookies; inside I see a pretty Black lady polishing a cake. She uses her spatula to smooth the frosting and a small sculpting tool to make meringue scallops. Behind her two girls are mixing batter, and there’s a boy churning butter.

The older girl wraps a trefoil-shaped cookie in parchment and waves for me to have it. A bell rings when I enter, and the air inside the shop is sweet and warm, reminding me of the years when my brother was learning to bake.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an extra penny today,” I tell the girl.

When she looks up, I recognize the young woman who helped Widow Higgins on the day of our arrival.

“That’s all right,” she says. “It’s our way of welcoming you to town. You live out near Zeke’s place?” she asks as I nibble at the cookie.

I’m no longer surprised when folks seem to know me.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m Mrs. Isobel Gamble.”

“I saw you at the sailing of the New Harmony,” she says with a smile, and I realize she is one of Mr. Remond’s daughters. She’s pretty and sharp, approaching the first bloom of young womanhood. Her words are gold, pure as a coin. “I heard it was your needle that saved the captain’s life on the crossing. We’re very grateful to you.”

I don’t know what she means by “we,” but she continues before I can inquire.

“I hear Dr. Gamble is traveling with Captain Darling now. You have nothing to fear with them together; the captain does not miss his mark.”

I am forced to say a few kind words about Edward lest I seem a bitter wife; I even ask about the sugar that Captain Darling will be bringing north.

A cloud crosses the girl’s face.

“We don’t like getting our sugar from the islands, but Papa says we have no choice.”

“And why is that?” I ask.

She cocks her head as if she has just remembered I have come from afar. Or perhaps she is taking her measure of me and deciding if I am dull-witted.

“Sugar plantations in the West Indies are the meanest place in the world, ma’am,” she says. “Papa saw for himself the way they work their slaves to a brutal death.”

Mrs. Remond comes from behind the counter and puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Don’t let my Nancy be bothering you,” Mrs. Remond says. “You enjoy your cookie now and the rest of your blessed day.”

As I open the door, I remember I have seen these same lantern and trefoil shapes woven into the sashes and belts Mercy sells on the wharf. I suspect it’s more than a coincidence, but what does it mean? My mind goes to the ships, slaves, and sugar plantations Nancy spoke of just a moment ago, and I feel there’s something important hidden here, if only I knew how to look and what to seek.



* * *



ON MARKET DAY the square is filled with farmers selling crates of potatoes, onions, wheat, and rye. The sausage man is calling out his price; there’s a bald dentist pulling teeth and dropping them into a bloody bucket, a doctor with his pharmacy displayed beneath a canopy, and a woman selling baskets of muddy black mussels.

I find Mercy in the same spot on the wharf where I first spied her, wearing the same white turban. To her collection of sashes and belts she’s added a gold shawl trimmed with black whipstitch and tassels, a belt with a line of working farm men lined upon it, and a pair of ladies’ slippers decorated with crisp blue boats. I notice there are no pieces made with lanterns and trefoils today, but there is an abundance of those made with trees and fishes.

“Where do you find time to do such beautiful work?” I ask, even as I’m studying the stitching to learn something of her technique so that I can borrow it for my own. Mrs. Adams expects her gloves and I cannot afford to make another mistake.

“I do what I have to.” Mercy is cool, and I’m glad I didn’t bother her at home.

Ivy is crouched behind her mother, playing with two rag dolls. Her light freckles and blue-brown eyes set her apart from the darker children in Remond’s cake shop, and I wonder how it is that Mercy’s child has such unusual coloring.