by Anya Seton
I do hope there is going to be another, she thought. Lately she had been almost certain, but there had been false alarms before, and Henry was already seven. Dear Amos—she had never imagined he could show such feeling as he had on the night that Henry was born. Amos wasn’t much of a one for showing emotion, even in their most intimate moments. That part of marriage was moderate and tender and pleasantly satisfying.
And I’m glad it’s that way, she thought. I had enough of the other thing with Evan. She lay back on the pillow again, deliberately remembering—as she had not been willing to do in years—those strange ecstatic, and then miserable, eight months with Evan. The memory no longer brought much pain and it was hard to believe they ever happened.
She had heard no word from or about him in the nine years since the final divorce decree came through. He had been in London then, and he had sent a cable that said, “Better luck—Redlake.” It had angered her very much at the time and she had burned it up at once in the great fireplace at home between Phebe’s andirons, saying to her, “Take that, you and your wifely virtues and your enduring courage!” And she had been very impatient with her father’s fumbling attempts at comfort, and resentful of her mother’s “I told you so’s.” Yet her parents had been good to her during that difficult time of waiting. They had borne with her prickly defensive moods, and shielded her from Marblehead’s gossip. There hadn’t been as much scandal as they had feared. Amos had seen to it that the divorce on grounds of desertion was discreetly handled in Boston. Only a few of the old Marbleheaders knew the facts ■—the Dolliber connection and the Peaches—and they rallied around to protect their own. Poor Hes had had a dreadful time with some worthless furriner, and had had to get shet of him. Well, it served her right—but least said soonest mended.
Her marriage to Amos was quite another matter. She and Amos had driven back from Salem and the magistrate’s ceremony to face virtual ostracism from the old Marbleheaders, and a chill indifference from the newer industrial society. The first group felt that Hesper had forfeited all indulgence by this demented new alliance with another furriner, one, moreover, whose aggressive business tactics, ornate new mansion, and continual exhortations in town meeting towards expansion and progression made him increasingly unpopular. The shoemen and their wives had simpler motives. Amos was taking business away from many older firms, and that redheaded Honeywood woman he’d suddenly married had some sort of an unsavory past. Some said widow, some said not. There was a rumor that she had at best actually been a factory hand herself once, and came from that dilapidated old fishing inn down by the wharves. Not the sort of person you’d call on. And they did not call.
Charity Trevercombe, whose motives were simplest of all, since Hesper had captured the man Charity had marked for her own, did her best to keep the animosity hot against them for a while. But then suddenly, after her mother had died, Charity had experienced a kind of conversion and lost her resentment, so that now relations were friendly enough.
Ah, well, thought Hesper, it’s a stupid little town anyway. I’ve grown beyond it. I wish we didn’t have to have Ma and Pa for dinner tonight. For the Portermans were planning a dinner party in honor of the Hay-Bottses, an English couple they had met the summer before at Franconia Notch. Charity had been invited and Eben Dorch, a middle-aged bachelor, to escort her, and it was a pity that the elder Honeywoods must also be included. You never could tell what Ma might say, and you knew all too well what Pa would, but they always came to New Year’s dinner. Ma closed the Inn and planned for it weeks ahead, and it was the only time Pa would leave home. It had been a terrible struggle to get him out the first New Year’s Day after their marriage, but now he looked forward to it eagerly. The annual dinner had become tradition.
Hesper sighed and smiled a little. Poor Pa and tradition....
There was a loud knock at the door and Annie stamped in with the coffee. Her white morning apron and the streamers on her cap were freshly starched for the New Year, but scarcely mitigated her crumpled uniform and frowsy stack of hair. She said, “Happy New Year to yez, mum, I’m sure—” put the tray down with a clatter, flung back the heavy mustard plush curtains, and put a match to the waiting fire, managing to knock over the brass fire tongs as she did so.
Amos waited until the girl had gone out, then he said with unusual querulousness, “Dammit—can’t you get something better than Annie—or train her better?”
Hesper sat up, shaking back the thick braids, and staring at him surprised. “Why—what’s the matter with her? She gives good service, and she and Bridget get on well, and she’s good to Henry. Oh, Amos, stop scowling. I never thought you’d wake up cross. It’s New Year’s Day and I’ve just been thinking how nice our life is.”
Amos gave a mollified grunt, swallowing his coffee. He’d learned by now that Hes wasn’t much of a one for noticing little things, but she was a mighty good wife for all that, loyal and responsive and usually sweet-tempered. And she set a good table—if she didn’t always keep the hired girls up to the mark.
He stood up beside the bed, sliding his feet into his carpet slippers. A fine figure of a man, she thought, even in his night shirt, that showed the golden hairs on his chest and massive legs. A heavy man, but she didn’t mind that. Solid, dependable. And just as he’d looked older when he was in his twenties, now in the middle forties he looked younger.
“What are you fretting about, dear?” she asked gently. “You haven’t even wished me a Happy New Year.”
He put on his quilted maroon bathrobe, pulled the tasseled cord tight, came around the great bed and kissed her. She put her arms about his neck, and kissed him back, but Amos was preoccupied. He gave her a pat on the buttocks and went over to the fireplace, to warm the back of his legs in the age-old masculine manner.
He was fretting, but he had no intention of sharing his worries with Hesper. Protecting her from worry, coddling her with ease and luxury had been one of the pleasantest parts of a satisfactory marriage. It hadn’t been possible to dazzle Lily Rose, who came from a wealthy home, but Hes from the very beginning had received her new way of life with astonishment and gratitude. The elegant mansion, the carriage, the two hired girls, and the coachman, the wardrobe full of new clothes, the trips, to Portsmouth and Boston, and the White Mountains, the bathroom with its huge zinc tub edged with mahogany in which he could hear her splashing right now.
Amos pulled a cigar from the humidor on the marble mantel and lit it. He thought about tonight’s party. Bit of luck, meeting Hay-Botts at the Franconia House in New Hampshire last August. Wealthy Englishman from Bristol, boot and shoe manufacturer, and interested in the industry here. If he could only be persuaded to invest in the factory.
Thing to do was to keep him away from Lynn if possible, convince him Marblehead was still the foremost shoe center. And it is too, Amos thought, this is only a temporary recession. He frowned at the veined marble hearth and spat into the fire.
No denying money was tight since the panic of ’73. Got to get the bank to grant an extension. Got to get O’Malley’s order out fast. God damn those lasters. Threatening strike again. And we’ve only held up their pay checks three weeks. Some of the other factories are a month behind.
He walked over to his wardrobe and extracted a letter and a clipping from the vest pocket of the suit he had worn yesterday.
The letter was unsigned, printed in penciled capitals on cheap paper. It opened without salutation and said:
“Amos Porterman! What right have you to do business on money belonging to others without paying a rate of interest for hired money? How dare you hold up our pay again, to further your own selfish interests? Has it come to this that Marblehead Americans must submit to the lash of Boss, because they ask for what they earned? Think not we are hapless slaves! We know what to do.”
And the attached clipping was from the Marblehead Messenger, and began, “The Grand Scribe of the Knights of Saint Crispin addressed all shoemakers at Lyceum Hall last night, on ‘the grievous wrongs of La
bour.’ ”
Amos wadded the two pieces of paper and threw them into the fire. Damn fools—I haven’t the money to pay them until we ship O’Malley’s order and get the check. They know that, they know I’ve always treated them right. He thought with indignation of their ingratitude. What about the pension he paid out of his own pocket to old Smitty the retired cutter? The milk he was buying for Bodfin’s sick child? The bottle of rum the factory donated to each honorably discharged hand? The free beer on holidays?
I wonder could Nat Cubby be at the bottom of this new agitation, thought Amos suddenly, and felt a spasm of disquiet.
Hesper came out of the bathroom, glowing above a frilled muslin negligee, her damp hair curling around her face.
“Heavens, Amos—” she cried. “You still standing there and scowling. Whatever is the matter?”
“Oh nothing—” he began, following his usual pattern. But he paused, she looked fresh and strong and handsome, her wide mouth smiling, her level eyebrows like composed black wings above her questioning eyes. His steady affection heightened to awareness, and an unusual impulse made him speak. He laughed casually.
“As a matter of fact, Hes, I was thinking of Nat Cubby. There’s a bit of trouble at the factory.”
“Nat Cubby?” she repeated, puzzled. “Why, I thought he’d settled down long ago, and was doing fine. He’s head laster, isn’t he?” She hadn’t thought of Nat in years. She could hardly remember the story, but sometime during Hesper’s absence in New York, Leah had had pneumonia and nearly died. After her difficult recovery she had become an invalid, never left the house. And Nat had changed at the same time, acted more contented—people said. Paid attention to his work, and quit grumbling. Never went anywhere except straight home from the factory, but then he’d always done that anyway.
Hesper’s nightmare fancies, and the panic she had felt at supper that night with the Cubbys so long ago, now seemed to her ridiculous. Indeed most memories of her Marblehead life before Evan seemed vague and distorted.
“Yes—” said Amos. “He’s a good laster. I guess I’m crazy. No reason to think it’s Nat. Everybody’s having labor troubles.” As a matter of fact the letter had not sounded like Nat, words too fancy. More like these Knights of Saint Crispin agitators.
But Nat had been acting queer lately. Drinking a lot more than he used to, and muttering to himself. And one day last week, after hearing Johnson’s report, Amos had made a special trip up to the making room, just to say a word to Nat, and ask him how his mother was. All through these years since that regrettable episode with Leah, he had shown Nat unusual consideration, and at Christmas he always told Johnson to send the Cubbys an expensive hamper of hothouse fruit, for which Nat often expressed terse thanks. There’d been no trouble at all. Nat’s attitude last week had, therefore, been perplexing.
Instead of answering Amos’ civil inquiry, Nat had given him a peculiar sideways look, of a tigerish furtiveness, spat out a mouthful of tacks and hunched his narrow shoulders over the last.
Amos had still lingered. He watched Nat’s expert motions as he seized another wet upper from the bin beside him, pulling and shaping it in his skinny brown hands before tacking it to the prepared sole, molding it onto the numbered wooden last and then flinging it on a rack to dry. Of the thirty-six operations required to make a shoe, this was the most important. It was the shoe’s actual birth, the climax when all the amorphous pieces of leather were fused into a recognizable entity, and the sight always gave Amos gratification, not unmixed with regret that at this moment of midwifery none of the new machinery was of the slightest use.
“You’re a skilled laster, Nat—” he said, looking over the many gleaming tools on the edge of Nat’s bench. The pinchers, the tack pullers, the toe bone and knives, and the hot iron for smoothing which rested on the tiny oil stove. “I like to see a man buy good tools and keep them neat.”
The hands always provided their own tools, though Amos was more generous than the other factory owners in supplying wax. And yet that infernal union of Saint Crispin had the gall to demand that the owners buy the tools.
As Amos stood there, Nat pushed rudely past him to hold a sole into the light, squinting at some flecks of glue. It was then that Amos noticed three long angry marks on the laster’s cheek. Marks like scratches; one of them had turned a lumpy purple and showed a thin yellow line of pus.
“Why, what’ve you done to your face, Nat? Not an accident here, I hope.”
Nat put the sole down on the bench, picked up the hot smoothing iron, and rubbed along the channeled edge. “No, you bostard, but you’re the cause of it, all the same.”
Amos, stiffening, could not believe he had heard aright. Nat’s voice was very low and mumbling, and he smelled strongly of rum. He replaced the hot iron on the stove, and picked up another sole without pausing. The other lasters, too, had settled into routine after the momentary flurry at the boss’s appearance. The making room presented its normal medley of purposeful action, in the tap of the hammers, the hiss of the smoothing irons, the smell of wet leather and glue.
Amos glanced again at Nat, cleared his throat, and walked downstairs to his office.
It couldn’t be Leah. Not after all these years of quiet. Everybody knew that her critical illness had cured her of the crazy spells and left her a feeble invalid entirely dependent on Nat’s care. It was a pity about that—that unfortunate incident that evening long ago, but that’s all it was, an incident. And I couldn’t help it—after all I’m a man, and she—Amos had banged up the lid of his roll-top desk, sat down, and irritably yanked toward him a sheaf of unopened bills. Anyway, nobody ever knew, or would have believed her if she had said anything.
I must have heard Nat wrong, thought Amos, or else he was just drunk and rambling. He had put the matter out of his mind, and he did so again, now, in favor of the more immediate problems of the Hay-Botts’ entertainment.
“Hes, I’d like everything to run very smooth while they’re here. Like ’em to stay over a few days, get Hay-Botts to invest in the factory.”
“Yes, dear, I understand—” answered Hesper blithely. “Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine.” But she had not the faintest idea of the extent of Amos’s worries. He was and always had been the miraculous provider of comfort. He seldom mentioned the factory, and discouraged her from doing so. She understood very well that he preferred to forget that she had ever been one of his stitching hands, and she was quite willing to forget it.
There was a precise double knock on the door, and Henry entered. “Good morning, Mama and Papa—” he said submitting to Hesper’s hug. Annie had dressed him in his best velvet jacket and plaid kilts, his pale taffy hair was slicked into sausage curls on his large head. He had a clear, high voice, read exceptionally well for seven, and caused no trouble at all, unless he was subjected to a breach in routine or expectation. This he disliked, and combated by obstinate silences.
Amos patted his son on the shoulder and said, “Well, my boy—have you learned the verses you’re going to speak for the company this evening?”
Henry nodded, and began. “What does little birdie say—”
His parents listened proudly, Hesper ready to prompt. But Henry needed no prompting.
I hope the new baby will be a girl, she thought, and she had an instant vision of it, dark and tiny and helpless. A baby that cooed and clung as Henry never had. Not that Henry wasn’t a darling.
He finished his rehearsal and the family went down to breakfast.
The sleet had changed to light snow and a gray uncertain light wavered through the large dining room. Amos pulled down the center gasolier and lit the burners. The harsh white glare funneled down on the white table cloth, and sharply illuminated the woodwork trim—grained to imitate marble, the brown-plaster copy of “The Ragged Urchin” which stood on a pedestal in the bay window between two rubber plants, the fireplace which was never used and was filled by a fan-shaped pink paper frill, renewed twice a year.
; Annie clumped around the table flanking Amos with platters of griddle cakes and sausages, pies and a fried steak. Hesper served the scrambled eggs and poured the coffee, smiling at her two menfolk.
During the minutes of listening to Henry recite, she had suddenly been sure, instead of guessing, that she was indeed to have another baby. And she was happy. A new baby would make up for everything. Make up for what? she thought, laughing at herself, I’ve got everything.
The morning progressed pleasantly. She inspected the spare room which Annie had already prepared for the Hay-Bottses. She descended to the basement kitchen and ran over the dinner menu with Bridget, and she was relieved to find that both activities seemed to be superfluous. The spare room was presentable, and under Annie’s resentful eye she did not investigate very closely. In Bridget’s department, the fish chowder was already simmering on the stove, the squash and apple pies cooling in the pantry, and the ice cream waiting in its bucket of rock salt to be churned.
Dinner was to be at seven instead of midday, in deference to the Hay-Bottses who were not arriving until three, and had moreover mentioned at Franconia Notch that they were accustomed to evening dinner, so after lunch Amos departed in the big sleigh with Tim, the coachman, to meet the guests at Salem. There were no direct trains to Marblehead on holidays.
Hesper went upstairs and dressed herself in her best afternoon gown. It was a dark blue moire, lavishly trimmed with shiny black bugles and scrollwork braid, and gathered into a large bustle in back. She put on the coral necklace, brooch, and earrings which Amos had given her, wound her heavy auburn braids into a coil around her head, dusted her face with rice powder, and went downstairs to the drawing room to wait in perfect confidence.
She no longer worried about her appearance. The doubts and uncertainties of her first youth were far behind. And though she knew that Amos did not find her beautiful—as Evan had sometimes—she knew that he was pleased with her appearance, particularly when she was dressed as she was now, in an elaborate Boston-made gown, for which he never begrudged the high price.