Hester(74)

I haven’t forgotten what I saw and felt beside the graveyard two days ago, but now I understand that something must have happened since he last came to me; something must be terribly wrong.

As he joins the throng to leave the church his head is low, eyes lidded beneath a heavy brow. I understand why Abigail says he’s strange, but I also know how sensitive and deeply expressive he is, how his quiet demeanor hides deep emotions and doubts. I feel certain that he knows I am there; I will him to look up at me but he does not raise his eyes. I feel that I will die of shame, of heartbreak, of longing sliced through me right there in the church.



* * *



THE BRIDE AND groom lead a joyful procession through the streets and through the gates of the Silas home, and I follow.

In the yard there are two long tables filled with a luncheon of poached fishes and a roasted pig Mr. Remond has prepared. The very people who were polite and silent as they filled the church now push and prod at one another to get to the food. Plates are passed, and everyone is talking at once. In the crush of people I do not spy Nat or his family, but I find Nell at the table, cutting and boxing wedding cake for the well-wishers. On her hand is a silver band.

“You’ve done it.” I’m so consumed with my own pain that I don’t know how I smile for her.

“Mrs. Silas insists we take a wedding trip to Newport,” she says, her eyes bright and shining. “I’m so very happy.”

The wedding cake is a lemon confection with frosting that has been put in the icehouse to harden, and there is a fruitcake with white sugar topping. From afar, I watch Charlotte and her husband smile. I watch the way she keeps her flowers in front of her and the way he puts his hand atop hers. I worry that others will see what I see, the way he seems to make a web or a wall with his fingers, the way he seems to stand in front of her to shield her whole body from the eyes of the crowd. But the shawl I have made keeps her figure disguised, the slightly larger and more fashionable bustle lifts the skirt where it might otherwise have clung to her full abdomen.

Charlotte isn’t afraid. Charlotte is the cherished daughter of a captain, and every day of her life she has been loved and believed that love is her due, and it seems that this has made it so. Slaving money might have enabled this life, but does that make her love less true? Does that mean she doesn’t deserve her joy?

I don’t have an answer, but I cannot wish her ill. For if Charlotte can be radiant, if she can have a husband who looks at her with adoration despite what I know, then anything is possible. Anything must be possible. I want to believe it and I must believe it and so I believe it.



* * *



WHEN EVERYONE HAS eaten their fill and celebrated the new couple’s union and the well-wishers are on their way, I see Nat walk away from the luncheon with a sister on either arm.

I leave in the opposite direction, fighting back tears.

As I pass through the main square, a rough man with a gun at his waist comes out of Mr. Crombie’s woebegone tavern and spits onto the street. He takes me by surprise, for I’ve seen men like this only on the wharves, among the roughest sailors. When I glance around to see if anyone else is a witness, I spot Zeke at the edge of the square, almost out of sight, his face hardened in an unfamiliar way. I know in an instant that this rough man must be the slave catcher.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Gamble.”

A voice at my shoulder, a hand on my elbow. I’m so on edge that I let out a shriek.

“Hush, dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s Widow Higgins, her voice the hue and shape of shadows. I haven’t spoken with her since Nat told me the story of her husband’s and sister’s deaths and the shunning that followed.

The widow stands close, as she always does, and I see something that might be fear in her eyes.

“Salem loves a summer wedding,” the widow says now. Her eyes roll up in her head and for a moment it seems she’s going to have one of her spells.

“Widow Higgins…” I speak her name, hoping it will snap her back to attention. “I didn’t notice you at the luncheon.”

“But I saw you, dear.” She refocuses her eyes on me. She’s still closer than I’d like, but at least her gaze is clear. “You must stay away from Nathaniel Hathorne, Mrs. Gamble.”

I wonder if my own eyes might roll up into my head. I feel faint.

“Why must I do that?” It’s all I can do to keep my voice steady. To say less instead of more.

“I saw you gazing at him in the church,” she says. “He may be handsome, but there is cruelty in his family.”

She looks at my face, at the curls carefully arranged beneath my bonnet, at the place along my jaw and neck where Nat ran his lips. She cannot know my secrets with a simple glance. She cannot see colors in my words or the traces of his fingers on my skin.

“Don’t worry, your infatuation is safe with me,” she says at last.

I press my fingers to my temples, feel bile rising up in me.

“Remember that your husband’s ship will return soon.” She pats my hand. “And when it does, you must remind him to bring the next payment for the rent.”

“I won’t forget,” I say. But of course, Edward won’t be returning on the ship.



* * *



IF I HAVE any powers at all they are in my needle and thread, in the work that I do and the things that I imagine. That evening I sew one of the scrimshaw buttons onto a bit of brown sackcloth, but it looks like a grave in the mud. I tear it out and find the scrap of fine wool that I cut from Nat’s torn jacket on the night he came to me. I sew the button firm upon it. As daylight fades, I walk out to the rock where we first sat together and tuck the cloth into the space where he left the rose. I stand there for some time and imagine him finding the button, bringing it to me.