Halestorm

by Becky Akers

“Elijah?” She laughed bitterly at the idea of plain, stilted Elijah gaining prominence. With none of Nathan’s charm, none of his brilliance, nor the indefinable favor that put him at the center of any gathering, Elijah would never amount to more than what he already was.

  She squeezed his fingers. “Nathan, please, while you’re home, visit me. ’Tis hard to travel like this, but I can’t bear not to see you—”

  “Brother Nathan!” Elijah’s high voice pierced her words, and she dropped Nathan’s hands. “Good to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ripley, and congratulations. You certainly won the best girl in Connecticut.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I saw Enoch outside. He says you’ll be here a week. You’ll have to stop by the house. Unless, of course,” Elijah’s pale eyes twinkled, “the young ladies are taking too much of your time.”

  He had a smile ready for one of Nathan’s witty answers, and she took pleasure in wiping it off his face, her voice so sharp he blushed. “Come on, Elijah. Let’s go home.”

  She suffered him to hold her arm, though she knew he was shrugging over her head at Nathan, and steer her to the door.

  Whether the girls of Coventry did indeed keep Nathan busy or whether he distrusted himself in her company, he waited until Friday to visit, and then he arrived at suppertime, when he could be sure Elijah was home. Alice directed the hired girl, standing awestruck as she clutched Nathan’s tricorn, to step lively and put another plate on the table. “I forgot he’s so handsome,” Jenny breathed as she hustled to the kitchen.

  They repaired to the parlor. Elijah had given Alice free rein to select the furnishings, and she chose the finest money could buy. Chippendale chairs surrounded a gateleg table of mahogany with a figured floor-cloth beneath. The sideboard displayed blue and white china, complementing the porcelain tiles around the hearth. Still, the room never satisfied her, though she had fiddled with it for months while Jenny cared for the house and Elijah forbade her to work because of the baby. It was not as lovely as the parlor at the Hales’ farm, though it was far more spacious and richly furnished. Now, with Nathan’s vitality and grace lighting it, she saw what it had missed, knew why glossy wood and fancy carving could never set it right.

  “’Tis almost as fine as the dining common at Yale,” Nathan said.

  Elijah took him seriously and beamed, imagining anything connected with the college to be grand indeed. “Thank you, sir. Your sister has excellent taste.”

  They found their places around the table, and Elijah folded his hands for grace. Alice peeked at Nathan, standing across from her. She forgot to bow her head as her husband’s “Amen” sounded, and when Nathan raised his eyes, he caught her staring at him. His love rushed into his face, but then he gave his head a slight shake. They seated themselves, and he said to Elijah, “Well, sir, you hope to give me a nephew or niece with this baby?”

  Alice rang for Jenny to serve. Elijah laughed. “A boy, I guess, to help me in my business. Though Alice probably wants a girl to help around the house.”

  A gracious wife would have demurred that Elijah’s generosity in hiring servants made her duties light. She was sure that Jenny, ladling onion soup into bowls at the sideboard, was waiting for such words. But she so resented Elijah for sitting there and ruining her meal with Nathan that she instead asked, “Where’s Haddam’s Landing, Nathan?”

  Elijah answered before Nathan could. “I sent a shipment of sailcloth down there last week, Alice. ’Tis about twenty-five, twenty-six miles south of here on the Connecticut River. Why?”

  “Nathan’s going to be teaching there.”

  “Really?” Elijah blew on a spoonful of soup. “That’s amazing that you found a place so soon with times hard as they are. And in a town with as many pretty girls as Haddam’s Landing.”

  “Well, I doubt a poor schoolmaster’ll appeal to them.”

  Oh, yes, you will, she thought fiercely. They’ll swarm all over you, and soon you’ll write you’re getting married, and I’ll die. She reached for her wine with a shaking hand, knocking it over.

  “You all right, Alice?” Elijah whipped his napkin from his neck and threw it onto the puddle, mopping it before it could drip from the table to stain her skirt.

  The evening passed in a blur. She tried to ask Nathan what he thought of Kate’s reaction to Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew, the last play she’d read before Elijah confiscated her Shakespeare. But her husband interrupted with a lengthy story about shipboard rats that had not only invaded but drowned in a barrel of molasses. Worse, Nathan had clearly come because it was his duty as her brother, not because he yearned to see her. She refused to be drawn into his banter, as if everything were fine and he were merely a relative calling on newlyweds. She was so curt with him that Elijah asked again, in that tone she so hated, the one that oozed concern, whether she were feeling well. She shrieked at him then as she had last Sabbath, “Leave me alone, Elijah!” An ungainly silence fell, during which Nathan pushed his meat around his plate while Elijah salted and re-salted his food.

  Finally, Nathan succumbed to politics. Elijah had tried to introduce that topic all during supper though his brother-in-law had dodged it from consideration for Alice. The two of them spoke of natural law and the rights of mankind until she feared she would scream once more.

  When the front door had closed behind Nathan, and Elijah awaited her in their chamber like a turnkey for his prisoner, remorse overwhelmed her. She had wasted the whole evening. Now Nathan had fulfilled his obligation and would not return. Why would he after the way she had treated him? She would write him tomorrow, beg his pardon, blame her pique on the baby. She lay composing the note as Elijah took what satisfaction he could from her swollen body.

  She usually mooned over Nathan’s letters and miniature after dinner, when she was sure Elijah had returned to his accounts. But the next morning as she wrote her apology, Nathan rose before her so strongly that she had to look on his face. Though it wanted barely half an hour to mealtime, she sent Jenny on an errand and waddled to the pantry.

  She fished the miniature from behind the crock of pickles. The technique was crude, but the painter had captured Nathan’s bonhomie and the tilt of his head. She never tired of gazing at it, nor of reading his letters.

  She read and let her eyes caress the painting. The baby moved within her, and she imagined how happy she and Nathan would have been over the birth of their first child. She slipped the picture into its hiding place and opened the letter on top one more time.

  It was her favorite, the one beginning “My dearest Ally” that had implied so much. She traced its lines and smiled. The pig rooting below the pantry’s window did not distract her. Nor did she glance up as a breeze ruffled the curtain. She did not even notice when a shadow fell across the page in her hand. But when Elijah said, “What’s that, Alice? What’ve you got there?” she started and made it worse by crying, “Nothing!” as she crammed the letters into the salt-box.

  Elijah was beside her in three steps. “Give me that. What kind of wife are you, keeping secrets from your husband?” He struggled to wrench the box from her, but she clung to it.

  “They’re letters from my family. Stop it, Elijah.”

  “If that’s all they are, you shouldn’t care if I see them.”

  “They’re addressed to me—ooohh!” The baby kicked. She relaxed her grip for a moment only, but it was enough for Elijah to seize the box and dash to the bedroom. Alice chased him as fast as her bulk permitted. He slammed the door in her face and stood against it, though she beat at the wood and wailed.

  Exhausted, she quit knocking to lean against the cool, smooth planks. She heard paper rustling and then tearing and thought dully, Dear God, but I hate him.

  When Elijah opened the door, the salt-box in his hand overflowed with scraps. He swept her a look that would have shriveled her could she have pried her eyes from those scraps. “You disgust me, Alice. You aren’t fit to be a wife or mother. ’Tis not enough for you
to—to lust after some other man, but that man’s your brother. Does he know about this?”

  She longed to shout the truth. She wanted to tell him she loved only Nathan and always would, that they would have married long ago, except for the Deacon.

  “No.” She spoke clearly, quietly. “No, he doesn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so. Man as honorable as he is, as your whole family is....” Elijah shook his head, baffled at such wickedness from a woman who had lived under the Deacon’s tutelage for five years. “Get out of my way.”

  She stood aside, and he walked past her, downstairs to the kitchen. She heard him stir the fire and the crackle of flames as he fed them Nathan’s letters. He said nothing more while they ate dinner, though Jenny served his favorite meal of beans with ham and onions. Once he had departed and Alice was sure he would not return until supper, she hurried to the pantry and moved the miniature to a new hiding place.

  CHAPTER 6

  After Deacon Hale married Alice to Elijah Ripley, Guy struggled to forget her. The Deacon’s reaction to his philandering had not surprised him. The father of a girl he hoped to seduce in London had done the same, betrothing his daughter to a vicar. She had been a pretty, spirited virgin, and Guy delighted in their affair. But that had been a mere flirtation, and one that paled beside the fever Alice kindled in him, that had him raging at the Deacon’s foolishness, at his waste of Alice’s beauty and wealth on Elijah Ripley. Ripley would never satisfy her, but Guy could, provided he had the chance.

  He was unwilling to admit defeat, especially since Alice had wed against her wishes, and vowed to continue courting her. The Deacon and then Ripley had frustrated these plans when each decreed he should not see her. But that hadn’t vanquished him. Alice’s love for her stepbrother did. Though Guy had once toyed with taking her by force if he could have her no other way, he now pined for her to return his ardor. He must see his obsession shining from her eyes. But so far, those eyes glinted at mention of Nathan Hale, not him.

  Discouraged, Guy exchanged Coventry for New York City and its famous Holy Ground. There he sought solace from the courtesans. He should have forgotten Alice quickly. But no matter how accommodating and voluptuous his companion, his thoughts returned to Alice the next morning. Did she still love that mewling brother of hers? Was she happy with her husband? At this, Guy would smirk. Alice had once or twice ridiculed Elijah Ripley to him, and he would wager marriage had not improved her opinion. He must have her, if not as wife then as mistress. And so he decided to return to Connecticut, however he preferred New York’s Loyalist atmosphere.

  But first he cast about for a way to supplement the revenues from his customs office. Not only were duties plummeting as captains evaded his agent, but he feared for his safety. The Sons of Liberty were once again tarring and feathering royal agents, as they had in his father’s time.

  He had warning of this one day at the John Street Theater while enjoying a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor. The show was superb, the equal of any he had seen in London, with an actor of deft timing as Falstaff. He paid scant attention to the lady seated beside him. She was mousy, with lackluster hair and features, and Guy demanded high color in his women. But she dabbed at her eyes throughout, and between acts, she wept. When Falstaff and company left the stage for the last time, he surrendered to decency and asked what had upset her.

  “—husband’s favorite play—loved comedy—” She sniffled and snorted until he hardly understood her through her tears. “—used to bring me here all the time. But then he—he—,” she gave a last, convulsive sob, “—died.”

  Guy murmured his condolences.

  “Killed, you know, by those Sons of Liberty.” Her eyes were puffy, her voice shrill. “And all because he was a customs officer. I hope the king catches every last one and hangs them all. ’Tis shameful, decent people cowering in their houses while those—those—” She could not find a word bad enough. Even so, Guy was daunted.

  But for Alice, and the debts from his father’s estate, he would shake the colonial dust from his feet and return home to England and civilization. Failing that, he decided to keep silent on politics once he reached Connecticut. He wished the king well and was as eager as the next man to profit from his government, but he refused to pay for such sentiments with a bucket of tar. Perhaps he would even hint that his sympathies were swinging toward the provinces. He doubted it would help his case with Alice, who cared for politics only until Nathan left the room, but it might make her husband more amenable and open Ripley’s door to him.

  Before leaving New York, Guy visited the wharves on the east side and investigated the shippers clustered there. Repeatedly, he heard the name Benson & Benson. They shipped more valuable cargo over riskier routes than their competitors. The proprietor, too busy to do more than greet him that day, mentioned that his son was graduating from Yale, so Guy suggested they conclude their deal at the commencement. He was sure Alice would be there since Nathan and Enoch Hale were receiving diplomas, and neither her husband nor her father could object to his speaking with her in such a public place.

  Guy was late to the ceremony and stood in the rear, fidgeting as students mounted the stage to debate in Latin. He scanned the audience, but with nearly a thousand relatives and sweethearts crammed into the hall, he could no more pick out Alice than he could Mr. Benson, whom he had met but once. He ambled outside, to New Haven’s waterfront, inquiring of the captains in port about Benson & Benson. Their answers pleased him, and he returned to the hall as the morning session ended.

  Guy spotted Deacon Hale towering above the crowd, his sons surrounding him. There stood Nathan at the center of an admiring throng of girls, smiling down at them, laughing at their quips. Had Guy been in his place, he’d have bedded half those wenches by week’s end and the other half the following Monday. Yet he would stake his investment that Hale went no further than flirting. His lip curled at such senseless chastity.

  Where was Alice? With her precious brother graduating, she ought to be there, worshipping at his feet. Guy peered about, searching for a nymph whose shining black hair tumbled about her shoulders. But only auburn Hales clustered near the Deacon and his wife.

  “Mr. Daggett, sir, over here.”

  He looked to his right where a hand waved over the mob. Pushing through it, he found Mr. Benson standing alone, with neither spouse nor son.

  “Left my boy with his mother and friends, though I’ll give him your congratulations,” he said when Guy expressed his compliments. “Now, sir, how about we go to the King’s Arms and sign papers, get this investment of yours off to a good start?”

  “First draught’s on me.” Guy opened the door and bowed Benson through it.

  The tavern was dark and cool as a cellar after the midday brightness. It was also thick with men hunting relief from the morning’s optimism and tedious Latin, so he and Benson waited long for a quiet corner.

  At last they sat with their rum and two pipes from the rack on the wall. Benson turned shrewd eyes on him. “Now, Mr. Daggett, I want to be sure you know the risks here, though of course, any time you want to make money, there’s risks.”

  “Don’t mind a risk long as there’s a good profit.”

  “Most of what we carry’s in high demand these days. We, ah, provide tea, glass, paint, sugar, just about anything Parliament’s said we have to buy from England at twice the cost of anyplace else, and we give our customers a, um, lower price. So, see, if a ship’s, ah, detained, we lose the ship and all the profit. That’s in addition to storms and pirates and such. Don’t know why the king’s got to make it so hard to earn a living.”

  Guy forgot his vow of silence on such matters. “Taxes are too high in England. His Majesty’s trying to ease things for the people there. It’s—”

  “You a Tory, Mr. Daggett?” Benson’s eyes were frosty over his rum.

  “No, course not—”

  “I won’t abide doing business with a man defends the king—”

&nbs
p; “Sir, I’m not—you got the wrong impress—”

  “Took in a Tory investor couple of years ago who let slip our dealings to some of his friends. One of them was brother to a customs officer. I lost that ship in a hurry, I’ll tell you. No, sir, you got kind feelings for a man points a musket at you to make sure you buy from his cronies, then you take your business somewheres else.”

  Guy saw opportunity skipping away and declared his umbrage at the king’s duties. “Let’s talk of pleasanter things. When a cargo comes in—”

  “Yes.” Benson smiled. “Cargo comes in, it makes it all worthwhile. We usually clear two to three times our investment. Everything goes well, I expect this ship’ll triple your money for you in a year’s time. It’s going from New York with a hold full of rum to Portugal, where it’ll take on Madeira, and then on to the West Indies for sugar, and back here. Here’s the contract and a table of the profits from last year.” He pulled on his pipe and handed Guy the papers.

  Guy studied the columns of ships’ names and their returns to the investors. Very handsome. Soon he would own a mansion as imposing as Elijah Ripley’s, with Alice moping after him, not Nathan Hale. He signed the contract and passed it to Benson with his pocketbook.

  Benson raised his mug in a toast. “Mr. Daggett, may our ship come to port as easy as this deal. Now I’m going back to the commencement. You coming this afternoon? Stay if you can—my son says they’re making up for the boredom this morning with a debate, in English, praise be. Something about whether women can be educated as well as men.”

  Guy snorted into his rum. “There’s nothing debatable there.”

  “How not?”

  “The ladies are fine companions in the bedroom, God love them, but they ought to leave the books to us.”

  “My opinion exactly, Mr. Daggett. But I hear some of the graduates’ll argue that a woman’s intellect is equal to ours.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Any of them arguing in favor of it, I’ll wager those are the ones looking to teach school. And how better to raise your earnings as a schoolmaster? Parents send you their daughters and their sons, you get two students where there was just one before.”