The two cousins had a business arrangement that suited them well. Reynolds captained the ship, Tristram found and managed investors. Or, as Trist liked to describe it in his cheeky way, “Ren makes the money. I spend it.”
Before long, Straight Wharf nearly emptied of sailors but for stevedores who unloaded the heavy wooden casks of whale oil off the lighters, rolling them down a wooden gangplank with a loud rumble—precious cargo ready to head to the warehouse. The same four remained in a tight clump: Jane and Daphne, Henry and Hitty. And Tristram, of course, though he was engaged in a deep conversation with the Endeavour’s first mate at the wharf’s edge.
Jane’s eyes snapped to a lighter approaching the dock. “There he is,” she said. “I’m sure of it.” Her fingers tightened on both of her children’s hands. “Come. It’s time to meet your father.” She started down the wharf to meet the lighter as it docked.
Ren stood at the bow with legs straddled, hands on his hips, elegant and graceful on the swiftly moving lighter. When he spotted his wife, he lifted both arms in greeting and she waved back, laughing.
Daphne was so pleased to see her brother-in-law return hale and hearty, she nearly lifted her skirts and ran down the deck, shouting his name. Five years ago she might have—nay, would have—done such a thing, but it would hardly be proper now. Then, she was still a girl, only fifteen. Today, she was a woman, trying to be proper, but it made her feel so stiff, like the whale-boned spikes that squeezed her middle so tight she could hardly breathe. How she missed the freedoms of girlhood! She squelched the desire to tumble straight into the family’s sweet reunion and watched demurely from a distance.
She’d forgotten how alike in looks Tristram and Ren were. Both with those broad Macy faces and deep-set eyes, dark hair. Ren’s hair was sun streaked but cropped close, Tristram’s was held back in a queue. Both with striking figures: trim, upright, confident. Standing behind Ren was a dark-skinned sailor she did not recognize. And then a familiar and weathered face, Jeremiah Macy, Ren’s father, who coopered on the Endeavour. She hardly knew Jeremiah but by reputation—his older brother, Matthew, had married Phoebe Starbuck, great-grandmother to Daphne and Jane. Like most Nantucketers, they were all distantly related.
When the lighter drew within a rod’s length, Ren leapt onto the deck, not even waiting until the mooring lines had been tied to the cleats. As soon as his boots—cracked white with salt—touched the solid planks of the wharf, he strode toward his wife and lifted her up in an embrace, swinging around in a circle. He gently set Jane down and bracketed her face with his two hands, holding it as if it were a precious treasure, gazing down into her eyes as if memorizing every feature.
Jane was the one who broke the intimate moment as she remembered the boy and girl who peered up uncertainly at the stranger. “Ren. Oh Ren. There will be time for us later. But now . . . come meet thy children.”
Daphne watched a sudden transformation come over Ren. He blanched, losing that ever-imposing captain’s countenance, and drew in a deep breath, as if having to recover from having the wind knocked out of him. As he turned his attention to his children, he seemed . . . ill at ease, unsure of what to do next, so he did nothing. Nothing but peer back at them. Prompted by Jane’s elbow, Henry extended his hand for a shake.
Ren bent over to shake his son’s small hand. “Um, lad, hello.”
Henry kept a quizzical expression on him. The boy was so like Jane, reserved and formal. He poked his eyeglasses up on the bridge of his nose, staring at his father, until he received another elbow jab from his mother. “Hello, Captain, sir. I am Henry Jeremiah Macy.”
Jane gently pushed Hitty forward. “And here is Mehitabel.”
Ren turned to the girl. He crouched down to her eye level. “Mehitabel. Hello, lass. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Everyone calls me Hitty,” she replied and curtsied very low, as if she were a lady.
“Then, Hitty it will be.”
“Did thee bring us presents?”
Again, Ren seemed baffled. “I’m certain,” he said at last, “that I have a few treasures in my chest.” With that, Hitty threw her arms around his neck. Daphne saw Ren’s eyelids slide closed for a moment as his daughter’s small arms clung to him.
Jane glanced up to see Daphne and raised an arm to her to bring her into the circle. “Ren, thee remembers my sister, Daphne.”
Ren lifted his chin over the top of Hitty’s head. His dark eyes moved back and forth over her face, wide with surprise. “Daphne? Why, you was just an awkward foal of a girl when I saw you last.”
Daphne took a few steps forward to join them. “When I last saw thee, Reynolds Macy, thy hair was in a queue—”
He brushed a hand over his head. “Crew cut. The entire ship. A lice outbreak.”
“—and thee was wooing my favorite sister and stealing her away from our childhood home.”
Ren laughed, as did Daphne. She turned, expecting to see Jane smiling too, and was startled to see the color drain from her sister’s face as if a stopper was pulled from a sink. Her eyes rolled back in a most unholy manner, and she wilted onto the deck.
Jane lay under the canopy of her four-poster bed at home, drifting in and out of consciousness, speaking a few garbled sounds now and then. Daphne sat in the chair next to her, watching for any significant changes, waiting for Ren and Jeremiah to return with Dr. Mitchell. Jane’s breathing was what concerned her most. It went from shallow breaths, slowing to nothing, then a shuddering gasp to get enough air. Her eyes opened now and then, looked around the room without any apparent recognition, before closing as if her eyelids weighed a hundred pounds.
Daphne felt tears welling, and struggled to keep them under control. Stay calm, she told herself. This is nothing more than a fainting spell, brought on by the anticipation of Ren’s return. “It’s all right,” Daphne said to herself. Surely, this spell was nothing more than overexcitement. “Everything’s all right.”
But it didn’t feel all right.
In her heart, Daphne knew something was seriously wrong. This was no mere summer cold. Jane hadn’t seemed hardy this last year, prone to colds that led quickly to grippe or influenza, once even to a bout of pneumonia.
The door to Jane’s chamber opened quietly, and Patience, the Indian maidservant, came in carrying a glass of sugared water. She lifted her dark eyebrows to give Daphne a questioning look.
“There is no change.”
Patience handed Daphne the glass. Yet her hands shook so much as she dipped the spoon into the water that Patience took it away from her. Instead, she fed Jane tiny sips, rubbing her throat to make her swallow. Patience radiated a calm authority, soothing, serene, silent. Not knowing how to help, Daphne stood and backed away, letting the maidservant sit in the chair next to the bed and take over. Patience had been with Jane and Daphne their entire lives, and the lines of servant/employer blurred together more times than not.
“The little ones are in the kitchen,” Patience said. “You should go to them, reassure them that their mother is well.”
How could she possibly tell Henry and Hitty that their mother was well when, clearly, she wasn’t? “Captain Macy should be here soon with the doctor. I don’t want to leave Jane’s side until he returns.”
Patience set the glass on the nightstand and turned to Daphne. “She takes no more. Try again later.”
After Patience left, the room seemed eerily quiet but for Jane’s labored breathing. Daphne noticed a trickle of sugar water had slipped down Jane’s neck. She opened a drawer in the nightstand to look for some kind of cloth or handkerchief to wipe it. Instead of a cloth, she found an old sheepskin book, wound tight with a leather string. She lifted it from the drawer and untied the string. She opened it to the first page, ever so carefully, for it was very old, and a slip of paper fell out. A pang pricked Daphne’s heart as she recognized the handwriting, the familiar script of her father.
To my dearest daughter, Jane, on the occasion of her weddi
ng.
This journal belonged to Great Mary, a woman renowned for her wisdom. It has been a Starbuck family tradition for the one who receives the journal to quietly and carefully choose whom to pass it along to. My grandmother Phoebe bestowed it to my mother, and she gave it to me, so I am now giving it to thee. May it bring thee some of Great Mary’s wisdom.
With love from thy
adoring Papa
Daphne picked up the sheepskin book, felt the weight of it in her hands. She had grown up hearing stories of Great Mary, everyone born on the island had, and if they were off-islanders, they didn’t deserve to know of her. Mary Coffin Starbuck, one of the first proprietors who settled the island, was referred to as the Deborah of Nantucket, a nod to the only female judge in the Old Testament. She was considered the wisest woman on the island. Settlers and Indians alike had sought out her opinions and judgments.
Daphne smoothed her hands over the leather. What would that be like? To be so highly respected and admired? It was an interesting notion. She knew without doubt that among Friends, her family was more a focus of gossip and rumor than admiration and respect. Daphne’s mother, Lillian Swain Coffin, spent most of her time trying to cover scandal quickly before others learned of it. Sadly, scandal kept arriving at Lillian’s doorstep, unbidden and unwanted.
Gently, Daphne opened the journal to a random page and squinted. The ink was faded, difficult to make out in places. And yet here were the thoughts, written for posterity, of her ancestor Great Mary.
Daphne wanted to ask Jane about this journal, to ask if she’d read it through, of what she’d learned of Great Mary. She closed the journal and tied the leather string around it, leaving it just as she’d found it. As she tucked the journal back into the drawer, she wished Jane had not kept its existence hidden from her. She thought they had no secrets between them, but apparently, like so many things of late, she was wrong.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
23 April 1662
’Tis not an easy thing to meld into another’s family. Today, Nathaniel and I have been married for one month. For the most part, I have found married life to be quite pleasant, quite agreeable. My father-in-law Edward has been thoroughly welcoming, though he is frequently absent with his work with the Wampanoags on the other side of the island. Jethro, only eleven, is a darling boy, sweet and thoughtful, much like my Nathaniel. But Catherine, my mother-in-law, and twelve-year-old Esther display a shortage of patience with me. I don’t seem to do anything in the “Starbuck Way.”
For good reason!
There were seldom, if any, occasions when I had been invited to Nathaniel’s home prior to our marriage, and now I understand why Catherine was reluctant to open her home. Her housekeeping is shockingly chaotic. There does not seem to be an order to household work. After one month, I have yet to discern any rhythm in the household. Which day is wash day, or bake day, or garden day? They all blur together, depending on what need is most critical.
I try to be helpful, as I was yesterday afternoon when I cleaned the kitchen while Catherine and Esther were visiting Jane Swain. I scrubbed every inch of the dark and dank kitchen, and made a place for everything on the sideboard so that I could put the crockery in its rightful spot. Muddled housekeeping leads to muddled thinking, my dear grandmother Coffin always said.
When Catherine and Esther returned, they gasped at my work—a gasp of delight, I first assumed. But no! Catherine was furious—in a cold, unexpressed way that I have become all too familiar with. Esther glared at me. They spent the evening undoing all I had done. And they said not a word of appreciation to me about my scrubbing and sweeping.
I was just trying to be useful!
And another “opportunity” to increase my tolerance arrived last evening, during the meal. Catherine criticized me for speaking my mind. She shushed me at dinner last night. Shushed me! I have never once been shushed in my family home. I noticed a smirk on Esther’s face. Nathaniel kept his eyes fixed firmly on his plate. Edward was not at home. He alone seems to have influence over the women in his household.
And yet, I must not be unkind. Mother warned me to be mindful of my tendency toward forthrightness. Soon, she assures me, they will come to know me, and will love me as a daughter and sister.
No doubt she is right. Adjustments take time. Still, it is hard to feel settled in a place that itself is so unsettled. I wonder of the other Starbuck siblings who live off island but are considering their mother’s request to move here, if they are all so difficult to befriend.
And as I went to bed last night, I said an extra prayer of thanks for how greatly Nathaniel takes after his father.
2
Children. I have children. Two of them. I am a father. Reynolds Macy kept turning those words over and over in his mind and they still didn’t make sense to him. Never had he felt so keeled over, so shocked, never in all his life, as that moment on the wharf when Jane said, “Come meet thy children” and introduced two little people to him.
He was a father. A father!
It was a staggering reality, one that he could barely get his head around . . . when suddenly Jane collapsed. He scooped her up, his father Jeremiah retrieved a horse and cart, they took Jane home to Orange Street to rest in her bedchamber, then he and his father hurried the poor horse back to town to find the doctor. That was a hunt in itself, for the doctor was on a call and reluctant to leave his patient, especially when he learned that Jane had merely fainted. “Revive her with a wisp of ammonia on a piece of cloth,” Dr. Mitchell instructed Ren. “I’ll get to the house as soon as I can.”
But Ren would not be placated as easily as that. Whatever had caused Jane to faint was no small thing; something about it troubled him greatly, and he was a man accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. It took a promise that the doctor need only check briefly on Jane’s condition, then he could return to his patient’s side—a laboring young woman—and finally the doctor relented.
It was in that drive back to Orange Street, doctor safely stowed in the cart, while Jeremiah and the doctor exchanged a bit of Nantucket news, that Ren was allowed a moment of quiet. His mind left the urgency of Jane’s predicament and turned to ponder those two blond-headed children who belonged to him. How could word not have trickled to him that he had become a father? Of twins! He had received two letters from Jane, but children were not mentioned.
Wait. Hold on. Maybe they were. Those names, Henry and Hitty. He vaguely recalled she had mentioned those names in one of her two letters that had reached him, a miracle in itself, through mail delivered from one Nantucket ship to another to another. The names were without explanation. He had assumed they were Jane’s neighbors, or some cousins. Certainly not their own children! She must have thought he’d received her other letters, one in which she told him their family had begun, with two babies named Henry and Hitty.
And they were already six years old. He’d missed their entire babyhood, their first of everything. Crawling, walking, talking. They were strangers to him, and he to them. The little girl seemed to have an openness to accept him, but the boy . . . none at all. Henry had a natural suspicion that Ren recognized, as he shared the characteristic. Until someone proved himself, Ren remained guarded toward others.
He snapped the reins to hurry the horse along the narrow streets. Even in his preoccupation with Jane, with the children, he could not help but be mindful of how Nantucket had changed during his absence. The harbor was twice as busy, littered with fishing dories. Beyond the bar, anchored ships bobbed on open water. The streets were crowded, new houses were tucked into what he’d remembered as empty lots, brick business buildings framed an expansive and still-uncobbled Main Street.
As long as he could remember, there’d been talk of rock paving Main Street, though he saw no signs of it. He recalled the debate rested on the fact that no one knew where to find the cobbles on a sandy island. Apparently, they still had no answer.
On every street were Quakers, women in big black bonnets, men
in flat low-brimmed hats, all dressed in solemn clothing. When they saw him, they waved, welcoming him home, and now and then Jeremiah elbowed him to notice and respond, so he would lift a hand in greeting. His heart wasn’t in it, though. It was at Orange Street.
A rumbling of horse and cart outside the window of Jane’s bedchamber signaled the arrival of Dr. Mitchell. Daphne flew to the sill to peer out. “He’s here. Thank God! All will be well.” She hurried to open the door to Jane’s chamber, and there, standing in the doorway, stood Henry and Hitty, with worried looks on their small round faces.
Daphne crouched down to gather the children against her, to keep them from seeing their mother in such a weakened condition. Dr. Mitchell marched up the stairs and straight into Jane’s bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He’d been to 15 Orange Street many times after the twins were born. Ren followed behind the doctor, only to stop halfway on the stairs, as if he didn’t know where his place was. With his wife? With his children?
Poor Ren. Not an hour ago, he was experiencing the happiest moment of a whalemaster’s life. A joyous homecoming. Suddenly, it had been snatched from him. “Ren, go inside and stay by Jane’s side. Thy presence will bring her comfort. I’ll stay with Henry and Hitty.”
His gaze shifted to Daphne, and he nodded, almost bewildered, grateful for the direction. Any direction. He walked slowly up the rest of the stairs to the landing, held his hand on the doorknob to Jane’s bedchamber for a moment, as if gathering his strength, then went inside.
Henry’s eyes followed his father. When the door shut behind him, he tugged on her sleeve. “What’s wrong with Mama?”
“I’m not sure, Henry. Dr. Mitchell will have to examine her.” She made her voice sound as calm and confident as she could muster. “Let’s go downstairs and get something to eat while we’re waiting. Patience was cooking something special for thy father’s homecoming, was she not?”
Minding the Light Page 2