Hester(57)

I’ve stitched through sadness and through fear; I’ve stitched through joy, trepidation, and hope. And so I find comfort the only way I know how: I work. I work the doves on Charlotte’s camisole, the ferns brushing the edges of her petticoat. I stay at my needle, but as the night grows darker and the cat curls against my legs, I know I’ll never see my dear pap again.

It’s past midnight when I put aside Charlotte’s whites and find a piece of pinewood-green velvet I’ve carried since I salvaged it from home. It is the finest cloth I have.

In my sewing box I find the last of Captain Darling’s silk threads. I use the black thread for the leopard’s long body, the dark brown for the edge of its spine. I work so deeply that when the needle pricks my finger, I do not feel it. Only the drop of blood on the cloth stops me, and even then only for a moment.

For two nights and days I work the needle.

I make the leopard’s eye with white pearl beads and black silk and fill the width of the velvet with whiskers that reach from one corner to the other. It’s oversize and strange, almost frightening. But when I hold it up, I see it is strength and courage. I recognize the letters in the spaces between the colors, and although Pap won’t see them, I believe he’ll feel them there.

Dear Pap,

I have a new friend in Salem who said that if I want courage, I should stitch courage. If I want love, I should stitch love. I have stitched both for you. You made me strong and gave me love and I thank you always. Kiss the babies and tell them I love them all the way in America. I will write to Jamie in London. I will always cherish you. When I have a son, I will name him Seamus after you.

Your loving and devoted daughter always,

Isobel

At home in Scotland, the May trees will have filled the hedgerows with white blossoms, then with a sweet fragrance, and when the blossoms fade it will smell like death. I post the package and pray it reaches Pap before it’s too late for him to feel my love. And when it’s done, I do what I promised Mercy: I harvest the pennyroyal, boil it down to a tincture, mix it with the beeswax, and deliver it to her.

She takes it in a single motion and closes the door, and I feel more alone than I have in a long time.

My father is dying. Edward isn’t coming home. It could mean freedom, but it might also mean disgrace. I saw the delight in Felicity’s face when she told me there was trouble on the ship. When she asked me to fetch a bolt of fabric, I could feel the mills in Lowell reaching for me.





EIGHTEEN





I’m sorting hooks and eyes when the bell rings and a tall man in a hooded cape comes into the shop. Felicity is in the back room. From the corner of my eye, I see her stand and brush off her skirts.

The man removes his hood and shakes off the rain. It’s Nat.

He opens his fist and puts a curled scrap of cloth on the table. The white cotton is smudged and soiled, but the scarlet A stitched by my hand is deep and true. I’m frightened of what I feel—dizzy excitement, a pulsing in my head. It’s been more than a week since I last saw him, and much has changed.

“I read the notice in the Gazette.” His words are quiet; they’re made not of gold but of light. “The New Harmony will be seven more weeks at sea.”

I want to tell him my pap is dying and that Edward isn’t on the ship. I want to ask if he’s done any writing about love or about the good that’s sometimes hidden even in the hardest men. But Felicity has trained her eye on me, and so I speak of the weather. I prattle about the rain and how it’s good for the garden. I say something inane about cabbage and green onions.

“And there is a plant I saw once in Scotland.” I speak to fill the space that his face opens in me. “A Venus flytrap that eats insects right out of the air.”

His mouth curls into that bemused smile just as Felicity joins us.

“Good morning, Mr. Hathorne.” It’s the same voice she used with the Philadelphia ladies. “I’m delighted to see you. Have you come to find something for your mother or sisters?”

He told me he’s solitary, even shy, but I haven’t seen it until he points to the display window and blinks as if to remind himself to speak.

“I’m curious about the new gloves.”

“They’re one of a kind,” Felicity says. “Custom-made and quite enchanting.”

She takes the pair with the red rose from the window. I wonder if he knows they are inspired by the rose he left for me. I wonder if he sees the words between the spaces.

“If you want a pair, you may order one,” Felicity says. “I don’t know how long the lady will need to make them, as it’s a slow process.”

“I imagine it must be.” Again, he seems to stammer.

“I think your mother would like these gloves, Mr. Hathorne.” Felicity’s words curdle and I can see in her posture that she assumes she has the upper hand. But Felicity is mistaken, for he hasn’t come for the gloves. He’s come for me. Whatever is happening between them is secondary to the soiled scrap of white cloth with the scarlet letter I’ve hidden away in my pocket. “If she’s going north, you must order them now so she has them before she leaves.”

Nat asks the price of the gloves. When she tells him, he seems to gather up his words so they come out strong and clear.

“Mother would never want anything so costly. She prefers simplicity.”