Hester(56)

If there’s a problem with one of the men, it’s bound to be Edward.



* * *



I DON’T HAVE to wait long to have my answer, for two mornings hence the postmaster slides a packet across the counter. He doesn’t arch an eyebrow or even look at me, but I have the feeling that the postmaster has more knowledge of the city than almost anyone. “Two letters for you.”

One letter is from Pap, the other has the New Harmony seal but is written in an unfamiliar hand. Fearing terrible news, I break the seal and open it quickly.

Dear Mrs. Gamble,

I trust you are well. I’m writing with difficult news of your husband. I regret to inform you that when it was time to leave the port of Bermuda he did not return to my ship. My men were unable to find him and we were forced to sail on without him. I left instruction that I should be alerted if news of his whereabouts reaches any shore. I am sorry to send bad news and will keep you informed if I should learn anything more of his fate.

I remain in your debt and service always.

Yours,

Capt. William Darling

Edward isn’t on the ship. Edward may not return to me.

At first it’s a fact. Then it’s a fear. Then it’s hope, white and light as a feather.



* * *



AT THE EDGE of the Common, brick houses stand like large mountains guarding the city. Schoolboys run past with their shoes in their hands. The church bells ring twelve, then one. When Nell leaves the Silas house on her afternoon errands, I call to her from afar.

My friend waves a finger at me, and we meet on the other side of the green where the road is wide and empty.

“Charlotte and Mrs. Silas are both grateful,” she says. “All is well in their house thanks to you.” She’s so warm, her words so green and bright, I think I will burst into tears.

“And what of you, Isobel?” She looks at me more closely. “Something is wrong—what is it?”

I know Nell is my dear friend, for when I tell her the captain’s news, her face crumples.

“What will you do if he doesn’t come home?”

I see Nat’s face, the glove that he pulled over my hand one finger at a time; the rose that stands on my table, the May tree flowers that have loosed their fading fragrance in my cottage.

“I’ve seen you with your beau,” I blurt out. “It’s never been that way with Edward.”

“He’s your husband,” she says. “But I fear…” Her words trail off into the color of a dried plum.

“Go on, Nell.”

“I fear he may have taken an island woman,” she says finally. “A man can leave and never look back, I’ve seen it happen.”

I tuck an arm through hers.

“I’ve kept your secrets,” I say. “Now will you keep mine?”

“I’ll keep your secrets always, Isobel.”

I take a deep breath. “Women have never been my husband’s weakness.”

When I tell her why we left Scotland her face is smooth, as if she’s heard it all before.

“My mother says a woman must hope for the best but prepare for the worst,” Nell says.

We’ve done a turn around the pasture on the edge of town and are returning to the Common when Nell raises a hand and her face brightens.

Her beau, Stephen, is loping toward us in his white apron and cap.

She puts her face next to mine, and her words are the same fresh green they were on that first day we met.

“Charlotte will be married in that dress thanks to you. My best advice is to stay in Mrs. Silas’s confidence. Opportunities will come to you. You won’t even know where they’ve come from, and they’ll be there. Mrs. Silas will look out for you.”



* * *



BACK HOME, I’M ready for my father’s words to soothe me. I press the envelope to my nose and smell tobacco, the comfort of my father’s pipe beside the fire. I close my eyes and see the chair where Pap would have sat when he wrote the letter. I remember my hand in his and the way he pressed the gold into my palm the day I left.

His letter begins full of good cheer.

My wife has had another child. We named her Mary-Rose, he writes. He tells me of the babe’s fair face and dark hair and follows with news about home and the city. It is a long page that continues on the back side.

Your brother has left to find work as a pastry man in London and can be reached care of the George Inn in Southwark. He will be very happy to have a letter from you.

Finally, daughter, I must tell you I’m not well. My breath is heavy and my body weak. I sleep but am never rested. I do not tell you to worry you, daughter, but only so that you are prepared and know that I have thought of you often and loved you dearly. Remember you have a gift, and you must use it. I will smile down on you from heaven if I am lucky enough to go there, and you will feel my love when the sun shines on your face.

Your loving father

I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

Yet I know Pap would only write the truth.

In my mind I do not see Pap’s face but his hands, the way he turned his cap in them, the way he put his two large palms on either side of my face and gave me courage. I see his hand pushing across the page writing this letter, and I feel the table beneath his palms.