by Amy Brill
“You’ve been sleeping outside?” Hannah asked. The idea of him without shelter against the rain and wind made her shiver more violently.
“It’s not important,” he said.
“It isn’t right.”
Isaac shrugged. The rain came harder, beginning to soak.
“My room at the boardinghouse is becoming unavailable,” he said. “She does not say why.”
Hannah stared at him, blinking away the water.
“Come with me,” she said, swinging the bag around so she could hug it to her body, protecting the telescope.
He shook his head.
“Already you are suffering,” he said. “I will not create more trouble.”
“It’s not important,” she echoed. They stared at each other. She’d failed to reveal herself in words, in deed. He could not see her, after all. She should be relieved. Walk away, she thought. Leave it here.
Instead, she reached for Isaac’s hand. When she made contact, clarity flooded through her. He looked as surprised as she felt, but he gave his hand to her. She weighed it in hers, imagining the delicate systems within. Blood, nerve, bone. She curled her fingers around his.
They walked this way until they reached the edge of Town. When he let go, it felt like losing a limb. The streets were empty, the paving stones slick and rippling. She couldn’t hear the bell ring on Riddell’s store when she entered, and she paid no attention to the mailbags as she reached into her letterbox for the key to the Atheneum and handed it to Isaac.
“It works on the side door as well,” she said. “Be out by dawn and replace it here in the morning.”
“If I’m caught? I’ll be arrested.” He shook his head.
“I’ll vouch for you.”
In the doorway they paused. She had to go right and he left.
“I’ll meet you at the Atheneum tomorrow, after midnight,” she said. “We can finish our lessons there.”
He nodded, saying nothing. The last thing she saw before she turned toward home was the black glint of the wet key in his hand.
. 17 . Conflict
For the next two weeks, Hannah and Isaac fell into a routine that neither of them acknowledged would ever change or alter. Hannah’s daytime orbit maintained its usual course. Isaac slipped into the library well after dark each day, when borrowers and lecturers had all gone home. Each night, Hannah imagined him stretched out on one of the benches, contemplating his home, the Heavens, the journey before him.
They didn’t speak about the hours that stretched between their meetings. On the nights she came to the side door and slipped inside the cottony silence of the Atheneum to sit beside him on the floor between the stacks like islands upon a planked wooden sea, they pored over equations for everything from latitude by double altitudes to methods for finding the apparent time at sea. He did not touch her during those weeks. Nor did he revisit their words to each other the night of the storm. They did not speak of what would become of them during his absence. She did not talk about Philadelphia. He did not mention the Pearl.
Instead, they floated upon the cushioned nights among the books. When her lectures exhausted them, she read out loud from an array of texts: more of Humboldt’s Cosmos. Mr. Emerson’s “Character”—though she hesitated before showing him the image of the man he’d reminded her of the first day they had walked together through Town. But he did not laugh at the comparison to an English nobleman. Nor was he offended. He took the book from her and bent over the image, examining it as if it were being presented as evidence at a trial.
“Fascinating,” Isaac said after a full two minutes of scrutiny. “He is a white man, no?”
“Clearly, yes,” Hannah said, uncertain of his meaning. “He is English.”
“My great-grandfather was English,” Isaac said. “Maybe we are relating.”
“I doubt you’re related to Lord Chatham,” Hannah said. “But I wasn’t suggesting you resembled him directly. You’ve some aspect in common that’s not specific to your features. The way you carry yourself.”
“Why would we not be re-lay-ted?”
“Well, for starters, he is white and you are . . . not,” Hannah said, feeling a little foolish but sticking to the facts.
Isaac leaned back on his elbows and tilted his head at her like a barn owl, then shook it as if he were very sorry for her.
“What?”
“Black or white. This or that. How are you believing that all things proceed in this way?” he asked. He looked as if he were about to laugh, but his chin pointed at her like a challenge.
“I’m only stating the truth,” Hannah said. She frowned at the book in her lap, but its sentences and paragraphs ran together.
“I am not white. He is not black.” He held out a palm for each word, as though they were pieces of fruit she was to choose. “Everywhere in this world, even on this Island—especially here— people are not one or the other. Are you never seeing people the color of wood? The color of honey? The color of . . . amêndoa.”
She shook her head.
Isaac hesitated, tasting for the word.
“Al-mond,” he pronounced, and wagged his finger at her. “Only people your color are thinking everyone else is one thing and they are another.”
“And in your few months here you’ve become an expert in what all white people think?” Insulted to be lumped together with every pale denizen of the Island, regardless of their education—not to mention the world at large—Hannah rose and took the book back to the philosophy section, reshelving it with a satisfying hiss of leather on leather.
“My opinions are forming before I am coming here, Miss Price,” Isaac said, assuming a serious posture. “But since I am losing my place to work, and also my room, I am beginning to understand better.”
“You think it’s because you’re not white,” Hannah said, crossing her arms. “But there are dozens of black families that have lived here, and been employed here, for decades. As long as my own family, in some cases. The Friends were first among those who freed their slaves voluntarily—”
“So you are saying before.”
“We are categorically against human bondage.”
“I was not speaking of this. Why do you?”
“You’re speaking uncharitably about my people.” Hannah felt her spine stiffen.
“You say you speak only in truth. Yet you know that your people are sending the black children to different schools than the white children. Your people are throwing rocks at those who speak here against slavery.” Isaac’s choice of words sounded like an accusation, and Hannah felt a storm brewing in her throat.
“That only happened one time,” she stated. “And it happened because Mr. Garrison spoke ill of religion, not because he encouraged manumission.”
“Your people are hoping that I will be disappearing. They are helping me to disappear,” he went on, as if it were obvious. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “And you are thinking this is for another reason than my color? And our . . . arrangement?” He held out his hands.
Her mouth snapped shut. She wanted to tell him that the schools committee did not represent the majority view of Islanders. That a white Friend and barrister had helped the African community petition the Commonwealth on the matter of school segregation. That she had not noticed the whispers that seemed to float in her wake like veils in recent days.
“That cannot be,” she said instead. “People of every color are welcome on this Island.”
“If it is being profitable,” he answered, clicking his tongue as if she were a schoolgirl. “And if it is not crossing the Newtown Gate. Especially at night. With one of its daughters.”
The sharpness of his words surprised her, and though he hadn’t raised his voice, Hannah felt as if she was under attack. Isaac Martin had spent only a few months on Nantucket; she’d been here her whole life. How dare he question its people, their principles? Had her people not employed him, even advanced him? Had they not offered him opportunity when t
hey might have passed him over? Had she not done the same?
“I think, Mr. Martin, that you do not understand this place. We try to live according to Discipline, which prohibits interaction with the world’s people so as not to distract us from our spiritual duties. Many people here don’t accept those who take too much action on behalf of social causes for that reason, though their underlying beliefs be the same. Of course, there are some who hold that the races are different in nature. That the children of savages cannot learn as well as the children of civilized people. But most of us— like most reasonable people—do not believe that. It’s been proven that they can, given the opportunity. “And furthermore,” she tacked on, feeling as if her lecture was falling flat even as her temper rose like mercury, “doors on this Island opened to those fleeing oppression even when it was not prudent, when it might have endangered the families therein. Even this door right here is open to you,” Hannah said nodding in its direction. “In daylight, you may attend lectures here. You may improve yourself along with any other resident. Should you so choose.”
Isaac shrugged. She could read no emotion on his face, though his eyebrows raised slightly.
“The children of savages?” He looked around, as if a pack of wild animal children were about to spring out from behind the gardening section. “If I am having children, will they be savages?”
“Of course not!” Was he purposefully misinterpreting her words? “That’s absurd. Why would I believe such a thing?”
“I think you are not knowing what you believe,” he said, and shook his head again. “What you are saying is only what you have been teach. Taught. That what does not look like you or sound like you or pray like you is bringing danger.”
He wiggled his fingers in her direction as if summoning a bogeyman.
“At least I can say that I believe something. That I’m guided by clear principles. What guides you, Mr. Martin? You wander about the globe hunting whales, earning a living, but what is the larger purpose? What might you contribute to the betterment of society? What knowledge?” Hannah hated how her voice had risen to shrill, but his casual posture— leaning back on his elbows, one ankle crossed comfortably over the other—was infuriating. He was utterly lacking in respect.
Isaac sighed as if he found her position amusing but tiresome.
“I am not thinking that knowledge is my contribution to this world. I have traveled the world, I have earned my place, I have advance to this position. Now . . . I am here.”
He tapped the floor of the Atheneum with his knuckle. The hollow knock echoed.
“Can that be all you aspire to? All you wish for?”
He tilted his head at her like a portraitist seeking a new angle.
“You did not ask what I wish for.”
“No. I did not.” She paused, the question drifting between them like a feather.
“I am not wishing for anything,” Isaac finally said. “I am not a child, imagining a life that cannot be. Dreaming without purpose. I have hopes: that my family is well, that their harvest is strong. That the Pearl will have a good crew, fair winds. That I will earn what I deserve, so that I can go home. That I can walk the way that we are walking, with earth beneath my feet. I have hopes. I have desire. But wishes— no.”
He patted the floor beside him, then held out his hand to her, like an elder beckoning to an errant child at Meeting. One who had strayed, by accident or intention. The smugness of the gesture wounded her more than his words. Did he think he could dismiss her very principles with a pat of his hand? That she, too, should live without goals, abandoning her values, in favor of . . . what?
She stared at him, her eyes burning. He’d abused her community, accused her of parroting their teachings. Called them hypocrites. He was an empty shell; he was godless and errant; she desired him and detested him. He was wrong about everything. He was right, and it was awful.
Each time she was with Isaac, she lost hold of herself. The feeling that her foundation was unsound was terrifying. Hannah did the only thing she knew how to do in the face of such confusion. She turned away and went through the door into the dark night without saying another word. But as she strode away from the Atheneum, she felt anything but satisfied.
. 18 . Changing weather
Hannah kept her head down as she walked toward the Atheneum the next morning. The air was humid, thick with fog. Her neighbors were indistinct blurs across Main Street, dark smudges that hummed and moved. She’d been up most of the night after leaving Isaac, turning like a leaf in the wind for hours, unable to sleep. In her half- conscious state, his words took on different meanings each time she reheard them. Accusation, admonition, lullaby: This is what you have been taught, he said, again and again, until dawn broke, grey and heavy as her dress, as her heart.
She barely looked up until she reached Riddell’s store. As she approached the familiar porch, its steps bowed by the weight of hope, a blurry crowd resolved, then parted as she stepped on to the stoop. Margaret Granger, Karen Pope, Aliza Starbuck, and two or three others fell silent as Hannah passed.
“Good morning,” Hannah mumbled. No one responded, though Margaret nodded a curt acknowledgment, then ducked her head, quick as a plover. Hannah pushed on into the store, wondering what had put everyone in such a foul humor. The bell broke the hush with its harsh jangle.
She hadn’t checked the letterbox in days, but was still surprised to find not one but two folded pieces of parchment inside. One bore George Bond’s familiar scrawl; the other had nothing but her name inscribed on it in carefully blocked print. It bore no return address or any other indication of its origin. Clutching both, she went back out onto the porch and settled on the top step to unfold George’s missive, ignoring the small flock of women still gathered by the railing.
10 June 1845. Cambridge. Dear Hannah, Forgive the short, and late, nature of this Letter. We have been back and forth to Ohio two times this month, to assist Mr. Loomis, and I have also been sent to Washington, so time for letter-writing has been scant. But good news! Which I’m sure thy father has already carried home to you—Nantucket shall have a place in the Survey this coming year, and the Survey itself shall be overseen not by your Favorite shepherd of Good Works, Lieutenant Phillips, but by Admiral Davis himself, who has a well-deserved reputation as a man of Science and also is a very decent fellow.
She scowled. This wasn’t necessarily good news; her father still hadn’t decided whether or not they’d accept the contract. She’d inquired about it once since the day of Edward’s return, and been informed that she would be told when he’d settled his mind on the matter. As if it were of no more consequence than whether he preferred chowder to broth for supper. Hannah gasped when she read the postscript:
PS: Monsieur Rainault in Paris has established priority on a new comet he sighted in May, sometime around the 19th—just announced in Astronomiche Nasrichten. R.A. 16h 29m 24s Did you not mention that you observed a body near Antares around then, just before you came to Cambridge? I wonder if it was the same.
Her hand flew to her mouth. The object she’d been observing in May had been close to Antares. The idea that she might have seen—but not reported—an actual comet was horrifying. She’d have to go back into her logs. There wasn’t enough time before work, but she couldn’t last an entire day without knowing. The eyes of the women on the porch bore into her as she leapt to her feet.
She ran all the way home, skirts flying, ignoring the stares of passersby and her wildly beating heart, flung open the front door, and raced up to the garret without even pausing to remove her bonnet. She shoved aside the flotsam that littered her desk, not caring about the papers and quills that flew to the ground. Where was the log? She paged through the volume with frantic haste.
Here: she scanned the entry quickly, then unfolded the page from George again, staring at it until the letters and numbers blurred. A ragged sob caught in her throat, but she choked it back. The object she’d seen was undoubtedly the same body that wou
ld bear the name of the French astronomer who had first reported it. It was too late for her to claim priority. The idea that she had found a comet after all— and found it first!—wasn’t comforting in the least. What were the chances of it happening twice? She’d likely lost her only chance for recognition.
Hannah sank into her chair, drained. The other note, which she’d forgotten about, poked her in the thigh. She unfolded it.
A single line unspooled across the page.
WHERE IS YOUR KEY?—A Friend. A blanket of needles rose from Hannah’s toes to her throat in a matter of seconds. She looked up and around as though someone were playing a prank. But she was alone in the garret.
It was heavy stock, not a student’s copy page. And the handwriting was neat and firm, blocked out in square, purposeful capital letters. An adult’s work, not a child’s. As she stared at it, the letters began to squirm, and she folded it up quickly, fighting the urge to shred it to pieces. Anger overtook her fear like a shark snapping up a minnow. Who would dare send such an outrageous, cowardly thing?
Hannah leapt to her feet and stormed down the stairs, forgetting about her lost comet in her haste to return to Riddell’s store. The women on the porch were still absorbed in their chatter, and none looked up, though Aliza Starbuck glanced in her direction, then whispered something to the others.
She pushed open the door so hard that the bell nearly flew off its little hook. Mrs. Riddell and the other two patrons stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. Forcing her feet forward, Hannah shuffled to the desk. Mrs. Riddell’s skin was dust yellow, like a paper ghost. Her hands were gnarled with age, but she sorted the stacks of parchment with the professional speed of a faro banker. She didn’t smile. Had she ever? Hannah couldn’t recall. She leaned closer, hoping to keep the conversation private, and cleared her throat.
“Does thee recall seeing anyone put a note in my box of late?” she asked.
“I don’t track comings and goings,” the woman answered, barely pausing as she sorted the pile of mail. Her hands flew. “Especially after hours.”