Hester(88)
Once I loved the shawl with its rich tapestry of the Garden. Even when Nat read his story of the poisoned plant I kept at my work, putting large orange and yellow flowers and adding a snake curled around the tree of life.
It seems a long time ago when Nat said if I want love, I should stitch love. I did, trusting it would be true. But there’s no reason to keep what pains and shames me. I will sell the shawl and be done with the myths that I once foolishly believed.
* * *
I’VE PACKED THE shawl in my basket and am walking to my errands—first the postmaster and then the Marine Society Hall—when I see Nat turn the corner onto the Common. He left in early July and now it’s September. I’ve waited and imagined this moment. Now he’s here in a fresh blue coat I don’t recognize, walking with one arm folded at his back and a lady on his arm.
He is well rested and strong. His good health, the jaunt in his step—they shock me. I want to rush ahead; I want to disappear. I want to hide and I want to put myself in his path.
He’s looking in a shop window. The lady is still on his arm and I’m crazed with knowing who she is. I cross the street opposite them and try to see her reflection in the shop window glass. My heart hums in my ears, a whine like a horde of wasps.
Her color is Nat’s, her hair is Nat’s. I’m filled with relief, for I recognize her from the day I saw him with his notebook in the notions shop. It’s the sister he calls Ebe, not a woman he’s courting. I look up and down the line of her spine and then the length of Nat’s legs. How well I know those legs. Many nights when I cannot sleep, I remember them warm against me.
Nat seems not to notice me, but Ebe is looking at me now. Her eyes are steely. She glares for one more second, then pushes her brother’s arm and walks him away from me just as I turn to the postmaster’s window.
“Here you are, Mrs. Gamble.” The postmaster slides a white letter sealed with blue wax across the counter to me. “From Philadelphia.”
I shake away the wallop of Nat’s appearance and allow myself a spike of nervous hope. I can go somewhere new; my child and I can start again. I’ve heard Philadelphia is a beautiful city filled with industry and good people, and I have great affection for my Charlotte.
Outside, I lean against the whitewashed building and peel back the wax seal. Charlotte’s letters are soft and twirled, like those of a young girl. I remember pressing my ear against her swollen belly when the child was rolling there.
Dear Mrs. Gamble,
Thank you for your note and the lovely pair of gloves. My little family and I are happy in our new home here. Much as I would like to welcome you in Philadelphia, I am afraid we do not have room for any visitors.
May God Bless and Protect You,
Mrs. Charlotte Hillsborough
At home that night, I close the shutters long before the bells ring nine and lie in the dark. This poor child will depend on me alone, and it will take more than a shawl to save us.
TWENTY-NINE
Abigail doesn’t wait to be invited in but steps past me into the cottage. A large hat and a fashionable veil hide her face, and she smells of starch and burnt leaves.
“Did Felicity send you?”
“Don’t be silly.” She removes the hat and veil, and her hair falls in tendrils around her cheeks. “She never says your name—and I wouldn’t spy on you even if she asked.”
Abigail takes a seat at my table, removes her gloves, and pulls a shawl from her basket. It’s partly decorated with beads and golden threads, which she shakes in my direction.
“Look at this mess I’ve made! I can’t figure how to make pumpkins that don’t look like fat stupid birds. Can you help me?”
“I may be able to.…” I reach for the shawl, and Abigail doesn’t stop her chatter.
“I miss you so very much, Isobel. Felicity hired her cousin’s daughter and the girl counts my stitches—” She opens a folded packet of threads for me to choose from a rainbow of colors. I pick the burnt orange of a pumpkin gourd, and wonder what price my own shawl will bring. “And if I forget to put a needle back she brings it to me and holds it up until I say I am sorry.”
Despite her chatter Abigail is skilled, and it doesn’t take her long to fill the pumpkin shape with a cross-stitch and then a long stitch so that the gourd is both fat and round. When she’s mastered it, she stands and stretches. For the first time, she notices the ladies’ clothing around my cottage and inspects a red-and-white-checked dress I am embroidering for a little girl whose health is poorly.
“You’re keeping busy, Isobel,” she exclaims. “How are you feeling? Are you resting and eating well? Are you taking in mending? What are your plans?”
I don’t like her meddling.
“If you came for gossip, I have nothing for you,” I say plainly.
Abigail drops the dress and takes my hands in hers.
“Isobel—I’m your friend.” She tips her head to the side and looks into my full lap. “You must realize that I’ve known your secret for a long time.”
I open my mouth to object, but she doesn’t stop her prattling.
“We were on the same moon cycle, don’t you remember? I knew you missed your bleeding because you rinsed your rags in the back and hung them to dry and then you didn’t.”