The Hearth and Eagle

by Anya Seton

  She turned her head and looked up at him. “Is that what you want, Evan?”

  Her soft question startled him, and the sudden clear beauty of her upturned face white against the fronds of her burning hair.

  “Sometimes,” he said below his breath. She lifted her open hands to him in a small submissive gesture. It moved him to compunction and pierced his guard. He pulled her to him again and kissed her. Soon he was astonished to feel the depths of passion which her response began to stir in him. The thick cream whiteness of her skin through the loosened bodice, the pulsing hollows at the base of her neck intoxicated him, yet even as he kissed her and savored the faint aromatic perfume of her skin, the watcher within made note. The shadows of her flesh were not violet as he had thought, they were bistre, and in her eyes upraised to his in half-frightened appeal, the moss-green irises were speckled with brown.

  “Ah, Evan I love you—” she whispered and at her own words, breath strangled in her throat. She shook her head and pushed him away, not clumsily as she had the first day, but with a decision that surprised him. She got up off the log and looked down at him.

  “What is it, Hesper?” He stood up at once.

  “When you’ve finished the pictures of me—” she said, “what then?”

  His face darkened. He reached an impatient hand to an overhanging pine branch and snapped it off. He ran his fingers down the sharp needles.

  “When I’ve done what I want in Marblehead, I’ll leave, no doubt.”

  She swallowed, gazing at his shut, averted face. The thin jutting nose, the long chin, the full lips curved in now on themselves.

  She picked up the wicker basket and started silently down the path. After a moment in which he watched her retreating figure, he loaded himself with his paraphernalia and followed her.

  When he reached the boat, she was already seated on the center thwart, her hands on the oars. Neither of them spoke as she rowed across the harbor.

  She landed them in Lovis Cove by Thatcher’s Sail Loft, and as they walked down the wharf one behind the other she was vaguely aware of two men standing in the doorway of Thatcher’s building. As she passed one of them stepped forward and said, “ ’Evening, Miss Honeywood.”

  Hesper started and blinked, collecting herself. Amos Porterman, gravely bowing, his keen blue eyes startled and disapproving as they glanced at Evan and back to Hesper.

  “ ’Evening, Mr. Porterman,” she said, and would have passed on, but Amos did not step aside. He continued to stand, large and immovable in the path. Hesper was forced to introduce Evan.

  “This is Mr. Redlake, boarding at the Inn. He’s an artist.”

  Amos bowed again, drawing his bushy blond eyebrows together in a frown. “I’ve heard you were in town, sir,” he said to Evan. “Is the painting good on the Neck?”

  Hesper felt herself grow hot. Mr. Porterman and his polite question had managed to convey the fact that it was well after sunset, and that he did not like Evan’s looks.

  “Why, tolerably good,” said Evan pleasantly.

  Amos stared again at Hesper’s vivid indignant face. He drew in his breath, and stepped back in the doorway. The two went past him and he watched them turn down Front Street. After a moment he resumed negotiation with Mr. Thatcher for the purchase of the sail loft, but found that he had lost interest in the transaction. He made another appointment, and walked off, leaving a startled Mr. Thatcher behind him.

  CHAPTER 10

  AMOS SPENT a troubled night tossing on his knobby bed at the Marblehead Hotel. At six o’clock he leaned out of the window and watched the swelling procession of shoe workers turn off onto School Street, bound for his factory in back of the hotel. This sight gave him none of the pleasure it usually did.

  Nor did the hitherto interesting appointments he had scheduled for the day. Final negotiations with the Boston firm of engineers for the conversion to steam. Introduction of compo work in a corner of the Making room; an experiment, but they were doing well with it in Lynn. Dinner at the Hotel with Macullar’s buyer, talk him into doubling his order. Ticklish interview with Josh Harris, find out if possible exactly what volume Harris & Sons were actually doing.

  Amos went through his day, fighting a black depression that ruined his appetite and even spoiled the taste of cigars. By four o’clock he decided to pay the Hearth and Eagle a call and found several reasons for doing so. It was only natural that he should take a friendly interest in the Inn and commend Mrs. Honeywood for the promptness with which she was paying back his loan. And then it was only friendly to warn her that there might be talk about Hesper and that long-legged painter. Girl had no business to be traipsing off alone to the Neck with a fellow like that. It shocked him to find that sensible Mrs. Honeywood permitted it. Very likely she’ll thank me for pointing it out.

  Amos left the factory and strolled down Pleasant Street, and his depression lifted. Action was always the answer to discomfort. He hastened his steps, and found himself caught by the charm of his adopted town, seeing it with an indulgent eye.

  The spell of fair June weather still held. As he walked beneath the maples and the wine-glass elms, the sun flickered from a vibrant blue sky, and he sniffed the scent of ocean salt and flowers. There were rosesand petunias in the rocky back yards, geraniums and heliotrope in the window boxes. He approved fresh coats of dazzling yellow paint on scattered houses in Franklin Street. He approved too the majestic horse chestnut which shadowed the Hearth and Eagle yard, its white blossoms shining proud as candles amongst the glossy green leaves.

  But there as he viewed the old house itself his approval ceased. He shook his head, staring at it with a pitying exasperation.

  The silver-gray clapboards were as innocent of paint as on the day they were cut. The steep ridgepole on the original ell, and the gambrel roof on Moses Honeywood’s larger addition, showed a rakish irregularity of line that offended him. And why in time couldn’t they have placed the windows fair and square to begin with? Must have had level and plumbline even in those days. He stood for a moment, his hands on the crumbling picket gate, and modernized the house. Raise the roof on the oldest part, cut new windows, top it off with a nice fretwork cupola, run a verandah across the front, with rocking chairs where the guests could sit and enjoy the view across the harbor. Put in a couple of bathrooms, attract the best class of people instead of riff-raff. Like that painter fellow.

  He tightened his lips, walked up the path, and entered by the taproom door. The low smoky room held four customers who looked up as the bell jangled. At the table below the casement window old Pinney Coit played checkers with his brother. At the center table, Cap’n Brown, master of an antiquated “heel-tapper,” sat morosely drinking grog and listening to a spate of political conjecture from “Gabby” Woodfin, who was as expert at cod-splitting and salting as he was a tedious talker.

  They knew Amos by sight, and greeted him with perfunctory grunts. The checker players continued their game. None of these men felt for him any particular animosity. They were all seamen and had remained so, stubbornly clinging to the dwindling trade into which they had been born, and they were entirely indifferent to a shoeman who was also a foreigner.

  Amos, quite accustomed to this attitude by now, nevertheless saw a good opportunity to ingratiate himself. He still cherished political ambitions—town selectman at least, even the legislature. He was well aware that so far he had made no progress, but it might be helpful to show these old Marbleheaders that he understood their interests.

  Mrs. Honeywood was not in sight, her place behind the counter being filled by a frowsy girl in a spotted apron. Amos decided to postpone the object of his visit for a few minutes, sat down at the center table between “Gabby” and Cap’n Brown, ordered drinks and plunged into appropriate questions.

  Was it true the fleet’d soon be in from the Banks, and that they’d caught full fare? That a big mackerel spirt had headed right into them? What a damn shame it was the government had voted to rescind the fisherma
n’s bounty. Times were bad enough without that, and you’d think even that parcel of fools in Congress’d have more sense. And how was Cap’n Brown’s old “heel-tapper?” Still laid up on the ways for repairs? Was there hope she’d sail again soon?

  The seamen drank Amos’ grog and thawed a trifle. Cap’n Brown delivered himself of monosyllables, but “Gabby” brightened into response as Amos complimented him on his loaded fish flakes. “I was over to Dolliber’s Cove yesterday—” said Amos, “and noted your cod was curing faster than anybody’s.”

  Gabby nodded complacently, running his scarred fingers through his lank gray hair. “Aye, Oi’ve the best dun-fish. They’ll be brown as a nut, fetch high in Par-rtygal. Oi tend them splits loike they was babies, keep headin’ ’em into the sun, swaddle ’em at night, an’ afore they ever reach the flakes, Oi press ’em in the foinest oaken kenches to pint up the flavor. Oi send clear to Provinceto’n fur me salt; was a toime Oi reckoned Beverley salt’d do, but it’s a queer thing about thot salt, don’t seem to give out brine as quick. Now you wouldn’t think there’d be difference twixt salts, nor difference twixt cod, neither, yet it’s well known that a fish cotched Newfoundland side o’ the Gr-rond Banks tastes different to them as is cotched eastwor-rd. Oncet when Oi was a leetle lod, cut-tail Oi was, on the Hannah, she was Chebacco-built at Ipswich, twenty tons burden, an’ as seawar-rthy a croft as you’d find from Nahant to Newbury, the skipper was a Tom Cheever an’ Oi remember—”

  Like a turgid brook burbling over stones, Gabby’s flow continued. The checker players had resumed their game. Cap’n Brown hunched himself over his mug, his bleary eyes glazed by interior mediation.

  Amos sighed, got up and paid the frowsy barmaid. Nobody noticed. Gabby’s monologue continued unchecked. Amos went in search of Mrs. Honeywood.

  He found her in the buttery off the kitchen skimming milk, and much disconcerted at the sight of him.

  “Why, Mr. Porterman!” she cried, throwing down the tin skimmer. “You’re heartily welcome, but I’m flustered to receive you like this. I’d no idea—Come through to the parlor, do.” She rolled down her sleeves, and untied her calico apron.

  “Please don’t trouble, ma’am—” said Amos, “I just came to see how you were, can’t stay long. Can’t we sit here?”

  He glanced around the kitchen, and upon Susan’s reluctantly seating herself on the settle, he wedged himself into the only armchair, the Windsor comb-back. It had been made in Boston two hundred years ago for Isaac Honeywood and Amos, surprised to find that it did not even creak beneath his weight, nevertheless thought that it should have been chopped for kindling long ago, like most things in this house. Look at those worm-eaten beams, and that rough-hewn lintel over the fireplace. Not even a decent mantelpiece.

  “With your head for business, ma’am,” he said to Susan, “I’m sure you’ll soon be making enough to refurbish the place a bit.”

  Susan nodded, agreeing with the implication. “Nothing I’d like better, but Roger he won’t hear of it. Wouldn’t even let me cover them old planks with some of that new oilcloth, would’ve brightened us up here. I had a fight to get the little cookstove, then I wanted to board up the fireplace summers. Roger, he jawed at me something fierce, till I had to let be. He likes to look at those old black fire-dogs. You’d think them made of gold.”

  Amos glanced at the andirons, and he made a sympathetic noise. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat, “Does Miss-uh-Hesper share her father’s views?”

  Susan snorted. “That girl, she’s no views of any kind, right now, excepting on that painter feller. I wish I’d never been so addle-pated as to give him house room.”

  “I thought as much—” said Amos under his breath, relieved to have the subject well launched, and to find that Mrs. Honeywood’s good sense had not failed her.

  “What’s he doing in Marblehead, anyway?” asked Amos.

  “Painting pictures.” Susan got up and went to the dresser. “Have a sup of my blackberry cordial,” she said over her shoulder, “unless you’d rather have something from the tap-room?”

  “No, thanks—” said Amos, “the cordial’d be fine,” and he waited, for Susan was clashing the decanter with a simmering vehemence. She put a pewter plate and glass beside Amos and sat down again. “Hesper’s in love with him,” she said starkly. “She’s daft about him, the poor buffleheaded girl.”

  Amos gulped a mouthful of fiery purple liquid. “He’s not suited to her!” he cried. He added more quietly, “Do you know anything about him?”

  Susan sighed, glad to be able to share her worry with a man whose opinion she respected. “Unsuited indeed for a match, though he claims Massachusetts birth and seems to have some means.” She shook her head, drawing her sandy brows together. “Still, I’d not fret so much for that, Mr. Porterman,” she said slowly. “The girl’s not been happy ever since Johnnie Peach was killed. She’s seemed to fit in no place. She’d never make a contented spinster, but it seemed ’twould be her lot. Now she’s found somebody, and niminy-piminy furriner that he is, I’d not stop her only—” she compressed her pale mouth and looked down at her lap. “That’s not the nub of the matter.”

  “What is, then?” asked Amos, leaning forward.

  “I doubt he’ll ever marry her,” said Susan. She turned her head and looked into the empty fireplace. “But she’s that daft about him, I’m afraid...” The dull red rose up her neck and cheeks and into the sandy gray-streaked hair.

  “But that’s outrageous—” shouted Amos, springing to his feet. “Get Mr. Honeywood to throw him out of the house.”

  Susan gave a curt laugh. “Roger’s no use. He’s daft about him too. Roger won’t ever see what he don’t want to.”

  “Then you must do something.” He strode over by Susan and stood beside the settle glaring down at her.

  “I’d do plenty if I knew what,” she answered tartly. “Hesper’s a woman grown, I can’t lock her in her room.”

  “Talk to that, what’s his name—Redlake.”

  “Nothing to talk about. There’s no getting hold of him. He’s a good listener, I’ll say that for him, but you try to get anything out of him and he’s close as a poked clam. Only one thing I know, excepting what I can read of him with my own two eyes is”—she paused, added with an ironic pride—“he thinks Hesper’s mighty handsome.”

  Amos opened his mouth and shut it again. Frowning he went back to the Windsor chair and sat down. “Well, I guess she is,” he said weakly. His depression returned to him, bearing with it a type of unhappiness he had not felt since he was a boy in Danvers and his puppy had fallen through the river ice and drowned. The same feeling of helpless loss, and rage and loneliness. Even Lily Rose’s death had not felt like this.

  “I ought to go,” he said, but his deep voice so lacked its usual incisiveness that Susan looked at him sharply. A fine figure of a man, she thought. Big and dependable. Looked like a sea-faring man, though he wasn’t. Steady far-seeing blue eyes under the tow-colored brows. Thick hair, so light you’d think it frosted with brine. And a skipper’s mouth, tight-clamped, made to give orders but upped at the corners a bit so there’d never be petty meanness.

  Why’d that fool girl have to treat him so stupid, why’d she have to throw herself at this gangling dolt of a painter instead!

  “I’d admire to have you stay on a spell, Mr. Porterman,” she said.

  Amos shook his head, half rising. “I must go, ma’am, I really must—”

  He stopped and they both turned their heads toward the back door. From outside on the stoop there had come a light clear laugh, tinged with excitement. I never heard her laugh before, thought Amos.

  Hesper came into the kitchen followed by Evan. Her shining hair was loosely bundled into the net and curled around her smiling face. She had an astonishing air of assurance and coquetry, though the smile faded as she saw Amos and her mother staring at her. She said “Oh—” and turning put her basket on the table. Evan gave the two in the kitchen
a semi-ironic bow. He looked harried and sulky. Carrying his easel and paints he disappeared through the buttery and back passage toward his room in the new wing.

  “At least—” snapped Susan to her daughter, “you’re a mite earlier than usual. You’ve not greeted Mr. Porterman.”

  “G’d afternoon,” said Hesper lightly in Amos’s direction. “Yes, we’re early because Evan couldn’t seem to get the hang of the painting today. He gave it up.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she said this, and she moved to the drainboard, and unpacked the basket with an air of secret triumph.

  “You mean he’s all through, and he’s going to leave Marblehead?” asked Susan, but without hope.

  “Oh I don’t know about that,” said Hesper. This time she gave them both a vague and tolerant smile.

  Amos clenched his hands on the chair arms. Emotions he had never suspected seemed to rush into his hands. He wanted to shake Hesper, he wanted to strangle Redlake. In a moment his hands unclenched and the violence rushed upwards into his tongue.

  “What’s going on between you two!” he shouted in a thunderous voice.

  Hesper started as though an actual clap of thunder had rent the kitchen. She turned on Amos a look of pure amazement, seeing him simply as a man—instead of intrusive foreigner and factory owner, for the first time in their relationship.

  Her heart began to beat with a nervous disquiet. She put her hand to her throat. “I can’t think that you’ve the right—”

  “No, I haven’t.” Amos had hold of himself now. “And I apologize. But I respect your mother, and I don’t like to see her worried.”

  He stood up, towering above Hesper, and even in her bewilderment she felt the change in his attitude towards her.

  She stepped back and turned her head towards Susan who stood watching. “You can stop fretting then, Ma—” she said. “Mr. Redlake has asked me to marry him,” and she marched out of the room.