Miss Whittier Makes a List

by Carla Kelly

  As she greeted the guests, she debated whether to use her Quaker “thee,” and decided she would. If we are to be neighbors, they must come to know me as I am, she thought. And if I am quaint, well, what of it? Daniel does not mind, and did he not promise me that he would be my mirror? Dressed in pale gray, her unruly curls subdued with a lace cap, she moved gracefully among her guests, wishing that her own mother could see her. And whenever conversation flagged, Lady Spark slipped adroitly into the gaps and smoothed them over until everyone was full of champagne and good feeling.

  With genuine regret, Hannah allowed her company to depart after tea in the parlor. She shook their hands again, promising to pay return visits, and assuring them of invitations to the wedding. When the last guest departed, she sank into a chair in the parlor and looked at Lady Spark, who sat beside her.

  “I would say that went off remarkably well, considering that neither of us knew a single guest,” Lady Spark commented as she kicked off her shoes. She glanced sideways at Hannah and they both dissolved into giggles.

  “Oh, dear,” Hannah said finally as she wiped her eyes. “Did I drink too much champagne?”

  “I fervently hope so!” Lady Spark said, the militant light back in her eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I could feel the pounds sterling just rolling down my throat, and it felt so good.” She started to laugh again, and Hannah joined in. After another moment of glee, she patted Hannah’s leg. “Well, my dear, do we stay here and wait for that sailor to return, or do we go back to London and order a half dozen new dresses?”

  Hannah smiled at Lady Spark with genuine affection. “I think I will remain here with Mrs. Paige another week or two. If he does not return by then, I will see thee in London.”

  “I approve, Hannah,” the dowager replied. “At any rate, I will return to this godforsaken wilderness for your wedding.”

  “Thank thee!” Hannah rose and stretched her arms high over her head. “And now, please excuse me. Since thee has driven me like a slavemaster all day, I am tired down to my toes.” She leaned forward impulsively and kissed Lady Spark.

  Lady Spark returned her kiss, and touched her cheek. “I cannot credit it, but my son seems to have done something very smart in the way of wife-hunting.”

  “He fished me off a grate in the middle of the Atlantic,” Hannah said.

  “My dear, that is merely philanthropy, and not love,” Lady Spark teased, and smiled at Hannah. “Now, go to bed before you drop!”

  She woke in the morning with renewed optimism, and a willingness to admit that as long as England was at war with France, she would rate a pale second in Captain Sir Daniel Spark’s life. It was a fact she could live with. I am nearly eighteen, she thought, and this war will not last forever. And when it is over, I will be first in his heart. I can wait in line behind Napoleon until then. Others are doing it.

  Soon Daniel would return from Portsmouth, full of his new ship, distracted by plans to refit and supply, swearing at quizmasters, and leaping up from the dinner table, or whenever the wind changed direction. She had seen her brother Matthew prepare for whaling voyages, and she knew the signs. He would stew about this and that, eat his food with dogged determination, his mind miles away. When we are married, I will offer him what comfort I can, and I will swallow my fears and wave him off from our front door, hoping to God that he will return.

  Marriage to a seafaring man was not a career for the faint of heart, he told herself, but I can manage. And when he is in my bed, I will make him forget the life that has chosen him, even if it is only for a few hours. She sighed and sat up, restless with thoughts of the man she would call husband soon, and who would father her children. “Oh, hurry up and get back here,” she said into her pillow before returning to sleep. “I am ready for mischief.”

  Lady Spark endured another week in Dorset, then threw up her hands over breakfast one morning and said that she could not suffer another hour of country silence. “I would almost give a year off my life for news of a really juicy scandal,” she declared as she shook her head over another of Mrs. Paige’s muffins. “And too many more of those will mean boiled potatoes and vinegar water until I can fit into my clothes again!”

  “I shall stay another week,” Hannah said as she accepted another muffin. “Mrs. Paige and I are doing an inventory on household contents.”

  Lady Spark made a face. “You are so domestic already! Next you will tell me that the chickens are off their laying.”

  Hannah chuckled as she buttered the muffin. “Well, they are, my dear. I wish I could remember Mama’s receipt for difficult poultry. Or did she just chop off their heads and fricassee them?”

  She waved Lady Spark off that afternoon in a post chaise, with promises to write as soon as Daniel returned with a writ of chancery and a special license. “My dear, I will pick out the silk for your wedding dress. I will have Madame LeTournier copy the pattern of your blue walking dress. That is so simple it will be done in a day. Just name the day,” was Lady Spark’s final command as Hannah was closing the door. With merry eyes she blew her a kiss.

  The household inventory was complete in two days, as well as a list of new wall coverings and paint. “We’ve been needing a change, Miss Whittier,” Mrs. Paige said as she organized the lists in the bookroom that night and extingshed the lamp. “Tomorrow, Mr. Paige and I will go into the village and see about the paint.”

  “Thee doesn’t think it will be too severe?” she asked. “It is what I am used to.”

  Mrs. Paige flashed one of her rare smiles. “I do not see how any home with you in it could ever be too severe.”

  The house was hers the next afternoon when the Paiges left with their lists, so she let herself into Daniel’s room for a look around. It was shabby and comfortable, smelling vaguely of tar. She traced the unmistakable odor to a tarry bag still filled with shot that he had dumped into a corner after one voyage or another and forgotten. She picked it up between thumb and forefinger and carried it into the hall, stopping to sniff it once and remember those desperate days and nights after the fight with the Bergeron.

  It seems so long ago, she thought as she returned to survey the room where she would be waking up for all the mornings of her life to come. There was a telescope on a stand, conveniently positioned by an armchair next to the window. She sat down, opened the window, and trained the glass out. “Sail ho,” she whispered, thinking again of those wonderful watches in the lookout of the Dissuade, sitting trousered and barefooted, the summer wind ruffling her head. There was nothing on the ocean now, and far in the distance, only a carriage. She closed the window again, shivering in the late September breeze. “I hope thee has another boat cloak, my dear,” she said, rubbing the goose-bumps on her arms.

  White walls would be the thing in here, she thought, and perhaps muslin curtains with just a touch of blue, light as Daniel’s eyes. He would probably object if she recovered the chair by the window; it could wait for a time when he was about to return from a voyage and would be more interested in bed than his chair. And I can sit there and watch for him.

  The mattress was firm, with no give to it. We may have to discuss this mattress, she thought as she tried to bounce on the bed. She remembered Mama’s generous mattress and how good it felt to crawl in bed with her and Papa when it was storming, or her childish dreams proved too vivid. Mama would plunk her between the two of them and they would go back to sleep, arms around each other and her safely tucked in the middle. “We will need a softer mattress, Daniel,” she said as she straightened the bedcovers that were already stretched taut as new rope. Mama could send her quilts from home, and rag rugs. It would be as close as she could get to Nantucket.

  She was sitting on the second floor landing by the stairs, dusting between the railings, when she heard the crunch of gravel in the front drive. She frowned. The Paiges must have forgotten their list, she thought as she returned to her work, humming to herself. The front door opened and she peered down the steps.

  It w
as Captain Spark. She set down the dust cloth and brushed her hair back from her face, her heart lively with greeting. Her first instinct was to leap to her feet and hurl herself down the stairs and into his arms, but she sat where she was, relishing the rare opportunity to observe him unawares.

  As she watched, the smile left her face. She folded her hands in her lap as he took off his tall hat, sighed audibly as he ran his fingers through his curly hair, and set the hat on the hall table. He picked up the mail on the silver tray, but his eyes did not seem to be seeing any of it. She leaned closer for a better glimpse of his face and held her breath at the way his mouth turned down and his whole body seemed to droop as though his cloak were too heavy for his shoulders.

  He just stood there, staring at the mail, making no move to look about for her, or call her name. It was as though he did not expect to find her there. My dear, I would never leave you, she thought. She almost called to him, but there was something different about him that stopped the loving words in her throat. She could never have expressed her concern in words; it was more a feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  She held her breath and waited for him to call her name. In another moment he had slung off the boat cloak to join the hat on the table, then carried the mail down the hall to the bookroom, where he closed the door behind him. A door seemed to slam in her heart, and she did not know why. She got to her feet and hurried down the stairs.

  He must have heard her on the stairs, because the bookroom door opened and he stood there. His eyes brightened when he saw her, but he did not raise his arms to welcome her into them. She stood before him then put her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her in a fierce embrace. His arms went around her then, and he returned her kiss as though he could not help himself. Her fingers were in his hair then, tugging at it as he kissed her until she was breathless.

  “Welcome home,” she said when she could speak. She released her grip on his hair, looked into his eyes, and still did not care for what she saw there. If he was her mirror, there was no reflection this time.

  “I didn’t know if you would be here, not after that dreadful way I left,” he said.

  “Thee cannot be serious, my love,” she chided. “I will never leave thee.”

  He sighed again, left her embrace, and leaned against the door frame. “It wasn’t nice of me.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but I am made of sterner stuff.” She touched his stomach playfully and blushed when he pulled away from her teasing fingers, as though she were taking liberties not hers. “Thee knows that about me already.”

  “So you are made of sterner stuff? Hold that thought my dear,” he said enigmatically. He inclined his head toward the front entrance. “I think I hear the Paiges. I passed them on the way home.” Hannah held her breath, dreading that sound of relief in his voice, as though he did not wish to be one more minute alone with her. “They went into town to buy some paint, Daniel.” She tried to smile, but it was a failed attempt. “I ... I ... have ordered some paint for the breakfast room, parlor, and your room.”

  “Did you? Hannah ...” he began, and then shook his head. He was silent, as if waiting for the Paiges to hurry inside and spare him the pain of conersation with her.

  “It can keep,” she said softly. “Thee must be tired.”

  “I am,” he said. “More than you know.”

  The Paiges came into the front hallway then, full of greetings and questions about his new commerce raider. Then Daniel and Mr. Paige were deep in discussion about the estate, and the harvest, and anything that would keep him away from her, Hannah thought as she stood in the hallway and heard her heart breaking.

  Dinner was a dreadful affair, full of jovial conversation with the Paiges, whom he had invited to dine with them. “For propriety’s sake,” he assured her, “now that my mother has beat a retreat back to the fleshpots of London.” But it was more than that, and she knew it, as he laughed and shared stories of the Clarion, and spoke of the coming winter on the blockade as though he looked forward to it. Mr. Paige delved deep into the conversation, but Mrs. Paige gradually dropped out, her eyes turning more and more to Hannah, a question in them.

  We must talk, she thought as she pushed Mrs. Paige’s delicious dinner around her plate without the energy to see it to her lips. Please, Mrs. Paige, get your husband out of here.

  The housekeeper seemed to know her thoughts. “Come, husband, you may help me with the dishes tonight, since I let the scullery maid visit her sister. Hannah has many plans to share with her captain.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Oh, not tonight. I have a head this big from too much rum last night. Hannah, please excuse me, but I am off to bed. We can talk in the morning. Good night.”

  He left the table without a backward glance. She sat, stricken with anguish in the dining room, until she heard his slow footsteps on the stair and the closing of his door down the hall. The Paiges looked at each other, then at Hannah. Mr. Paige began to gather the lates together.

  Mrs. Paige came to sit beside Hannah, and leaned closer, her voice low. “My dear, I would never breathe a word if you decided to go to his room to talk to him, and neither would Mr. Paige.” She grasped Hannah’s hand. “What could be wrong?”

  “I cannot imagine,” Hannah said. “He seems like a different person.” She rose slowly to her feet, as if infected with the same lethargy that had overtaken Daniel Spark. “Good night.”

  She went to her room, unable to face the closed door to Spark’s room that seemed almost like a reproach. She sat on her bed for a long time, as if unable to remember what she should do next. Oh, yes, it is night, she thought finally. I take off my clothes, get into my nightgown, say my prayers, and get into bed.

  Still she sat, helpless to do anything but dwell on dread that deepened by the moment. Only the greatest force of will compelled her to prepare for bed. It was useless to pray; her mind was a great blank that the Lord would not appreciate. She crawled between the covers and shivered there, wishing for a warming pan, wishing for her own bed at home, with its familiar lumps, wondering why she had ever imagined herself in Daniel’s hard bed. Sleep seemed farther away than America. She heard the clock strike midnight and then one, before her eyes closed.

  She woke toward morning to the sound of her door opening, and sat up, her heart in her throat. The room was dark, but she knew it was Daniel.

  “It cannot wait until morning, Hannah,” he said.

  Sleep was gone in an instant. “Come here, Daniel,” she said, and held out her hand to him.

  “No. I will sit here in the window,” he said. The curtains rustled, and then she saw him silhouetted in the faint moonlight, his face away from her, not even able to look at her in the darkness.

  “May I at least join you there?” she asked, struggling and failing to keep the desperation from her voice.

  “No.”

  The silence stretched into next week and she wanted to scream. She picked her words carefully. “My love, I really am not upset about the engagement party. Thee told me about the fortunes of war, and I do understand.”

  “I wish you were not so reasonable, Hannah,” he burst out, loud enough to make her jump. “It would make what I have to say so much easier for both of us.”

  “Then don’t say it,” she said, leaving her bed to stand by him in the moonlight.

  “Go back to bed, Hannah. You’ll catch your death on this cold floor.” His voice was sharp and she thought of the quarterdeck.

  “Very well, but only if thee tells me plain what is the matter.”

  He got up then to turn his back on her and gaze out into the fading moonlight, his feet planted wide apart as though the room pitched. “I have booked passage for you on the Bonny Jean, bound for Boston. It sails from Portsmouth in two days.”

  “No.”

  He did not turn around at her soft-voiced protest. His own words seemed to drag out of his throat with all the slowness of a nightmare. “I tore up the writ of chancery and retur
ned the special license. I am breaking our engagement.”

  “No.” It was as though she could say nothing else.

  “You are welcome to tell people that you broke the eagement I wouldn’t for the world make you an object of anyone’s derision.”

  “No.” Her lips felt numb; she couldn’t even discern a heartbeat in her breast anymore. “I love thee. We are to be married.”

  He turned to face her then, sat on the bed, and took her hand between his hands. “You’re not hearing a thing I am saying, are you? I will not marry you. Not now, and not later.”

  She broke free from his grasp and covered her face with her hands, willing herself not to cry. “I love you, Daniel Spark. I will have no other man.”

  He got up then and stood by her bed, looking down at her. “Of course you will, Hannah,” he said, with just a trace of humor in his voice. “You’re just a baby.”

  She leaped up again to stand next to him. “I am a woman, Daniel Spark, and thee knows it. Thee will have to do better than that.” She was shouting now, but she did not care. “Thee will have to tell me plain that thee does not love me.”

  He took her face between his hands, and she held her breath, hoping.

  “I do not love you, Hannah Whittier,” he told her, saying each word distinctly, as though he spoke to a child just learning speech. “You are young, and silly, and impulsive, and a dreadful nuisance. I cannot imagine what I was thinking.” His voice rose, too. “I do not love you! Is that enough?”

  He released her and she stepped back, her whole body limp. She dragged herself back into bed, pulled the covers up, and turned her face to the wall.

  “It is enough.”

  “Good night, then. I’ll see to a post chaise for you in the morning.”

  He closed the door behind him and left her to the most acute misery she could imagine, an agony almost physical that raked against every nerve in her body like a harrow over winter stubble. It was shame, humiliation, embarrassment, regret, horror, and bitterness all rolled into one terrible blow that struck at her heart and left her bleeding from unseen wounds. She could only lie there and suffer as though from a mortal blow that struck her again and again, pulling no punches.