by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
It also reminded him of his duty to the families of the men of the Egret. He’d been to visit the captain’s widow a couple of days after he arrived home. Several days later he called on Amos Mitchell’s family, and yesterday morning he’d been to see Gideon Bramwell’s parents. Those visits were difficult, but the appreciation showered on him told him those interviews had been essential. The parents and wives of the sailors wanted to know how their men had fared to the end.
Gideon Bramwell’s mother wept openly when Edward told her about the young man’s valiant struggles for survival and their camaraderie on the island. His father shed tears as well when Edward got to the recounting of Gideon’s death. He didn’t suffer, Edward assured them. His fall from the cliff was unexpected and swift. He died at once on the rocks, and his last act was one of trying to provide food for himself and Edward.
He would try to get to the Wilkes farm tomorrow. It was several miles out of town, but he could borrow a horse and ride out there. Davy’s death must have been a severe blow to his parents and the other children. Edward had already discussed with Jacob and Mr. Daniels giving a sum of money to the families of the men who had died when the Egret foundered. He himself wanted to take to the Wilkeses the amount allotted to them and tell them how bravely the boy had met his end. It wouldn’t be easy, and he wasn’t sure how much to tell them about Davy’s suffering after he shattered his leg while escaping the Egret. Best wait and see what their mood was, he decided. It had been four years, but they might still be angry or bitter toward the company. If the mother seemed resentful or distraught, he would keep to himself the details of the boy’s infection and lingering death.
He sighed, knowing he must take a day from his arduous work at the office to accomplish that errand. For the past week he’d given all the time he could spare to his scrutiny of the company’s records. It relieved him in some measure, as he’d concluded that Daniels was trustworthy beyond a doubt.
But his study had also given him cause for further dismay. Something was definitely odd about the Prosper‘s recent record. The ship had been a gold mine for the past two or three years, but since his father’s death, she had been marginally profitable. Since Jacob had taken the company’s helm, something had gone amiss in the Caribbean trade. Edward didn’t like to think his cousin was directly responsible, but he had to eliminate the possibility. He weighed the option of a frank confrontation with Jacob against waiting for the Prosper to come in and assessing her performance on the most recent voyage. The longer the ship was delayed, the darker his thoughts were running.
“Edward! Good morning!”
He looked up to see Pastor Jordan approaching him.
“May I walk with you?”
“Certainly. I’m only going to my office.”
“I’m heading for a house down past the wharves,” the pastor said. “An old salt who lives down there is ill, perhaps dying. Micah Carson.”
“I know him,” Edward said. “He worked for my father at one time.”
“And how are things going with you?”
Edward gritted his teeth. “Well, you made the announcement in church on Sunday, so you know Miss Bowman has set her heart on another.”
The pastor nodded, his features schooled to neutrality. “Yes. I wasn’t surprised when Dr. Bowman came to see me and asked me to announce Abigail’s upcoming marriage to Mr. Price, but I was concerned about you. How are you holding up?”
Edward sighed and looked at the kindly pastor. “The first time I saw her, several weeks ago, I thought I couldn’t go on living if she wouldn’t have me.”
“And now?”
He shrugged, looking down the street toward the harbor. “Well, I’m still alive.”
The pastor laid a hand on Edward’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s a difficult situation, son. I’ve been praying for you.”
“Thank you. I believe the Lord has brought about what is best. I bear Jacob no malice.”
“That’s good. Look to God for guidance and keep a forgiving spirit.”
“I believe I’m more than halfway there.”
“Good. This is a time of transition, then, in your mind and in your heart.”
“Yes. We are all sifting the meal, so to speak, trying to get the lumps out. Jacob and I had a long talk when I first got home. I’ve accepted this as God’s will for all of us. Now I’m concentrating on the business.”
“A big responsibility with your father gone.”
“Yes. I’m going over all the records to make sure I know everything that’s happened at Hunter Shipping since I went away. I’m afraid our accountant, Mr. Daniels, finds me a bit tedious with all the questions I’ve been asking him this last month.”
“Ah, well, hard work can be a blessing in times of emotional turmoil.”
“Would you keep praying for me, Pastor? There are a couple of matters giving me some anxiety.”
“Oh? Anything I can help with?”
Edward thought for a moment about the discrepancy in the Caribbean trade. That was strictly a business affair. But the other—an image of Deborah listening avidly as he related his adventures—flitted through his mind. Her smile was so genuine, so yearning that he couldn’t help being drawn to her. Just thinking of her these days caused his pulse to jump. Yes, the second one was a matter of the heart.
“Not specifically,” he said, “but knowing you are praying for me will be an encouragement.”
“Then rest easy,” said the pastor. “I’ve been praying for your peace and a bright future for you ever since I learned you’d come home.”
They had neared the harbor, and Edward looked out over the calm water of the estuary. The morning mist was disappearing off the sea. He drew a deep draft of the salty air. His problems with Abigail had dissipated much like the fog, and a new anticipation gripped him. What would God reveal for him, now that the future he’d expected was gone?
Chapter 10
Deborah climbed the attic stairs in the Hunter house, preceding her hostess to the door at the top. It opened onto the roof, where a small platform was enclosed by a decorative white railing. She looked out over the town, which in recent years had burgeoned into a city. The cupola on top of the new courthouse caught her eye. So many buildings that hadn’t been there when Edward went away. And now the new statehouse was under construction next to the courthouse. Portland must seem huge to him.
When he’d left, the businesses were still reeling from the economic blow dealt by the recent war with England. But now Exchange Street bustled with new shops, the wharves were crowded with stores, and dozens of brigs and schooners filled the harbor. The fledgling legislature was putting the new state constitution in place. Manufacturing was booming—foundries, ropewalks, soap and candle works, and mills and builders. Everywhere one looked, an air of prosperity hung over Portland.
Mrs. Hunter came behind her, puffing up the last few stairs, and stepped up onto the widow’s walk with Deborah.
“You have such a lovely view of the city and the harbor.” Deborah turned to the west and leaned on the railing, letting the wind blow against her face, tugging and teasing at her hair and her straw bonnet. “You must be able to see almost as far as Captain Moody can.”
“Oh no, the observatory is much higher than we are.” Mrs. Hunter chuckled. “Have you ever been up there?”
“No.”
“My husband took me up soon after it was built. We could see the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The captain said he can spot ships forty miles out to sea with his telescope.”
Deborah turned and looked east toward the conical building that towered over Moody’s homestead. Built on a rise that was one of the high points of the area, it rose majestically over the town, like a lighthouse that had given up the sea, wandered inland, and settled on a farm.
“It is a lot higher,” she conceded, “but I like your house best. I can see all the church steeples, the courthouse, and the river and the back cove. Even the cemetery. But I’m right here in your
peaceful house.”
“Thank you, dear. It’s been a snug home for many years. My husband’s father saw that it was well built, and I’ve not had much trouble with it, though I expect Edward will need to have it reshingled before too many more years pass. You can see down there on the gable where the shingles look a bit ruffled.”
Deborah squinted down at the edge of the roof. “Yes, I see the spot.”
“If we get another bad storm with a high wind from the east, he may need to do it sooner,” Mrs. Hunter said with a resigned smile. “But that’s the way it is when you live near the sea. Wind, wind, wind.”
Indeed, the gusts were pulling at Deborah’s bonnet so sharply that she untied the wide strings that anchored it under her chin and took it off, holding it down against her skirt.
“Now you’ll lose your hairpins.” Mrs. Hunter raised her voice against the stiff breeze, but she was smiling.
“That’s a lovely idea.” Deborah reached up and probed her coiled hair, extracting several polished wooden pins and slipping them into her pocket. Her long brown locks tumbled about her shoulders and swirled around her face, tossed about by the restless air from the bay.
Mrs. Hunter laughed. “Ah, to be young again.”
“Are you cold?” Deborah asked, noting that the older woman pulled her shawl tighter about her.
“Perhaps a bit.”
“Then we must go down. I’m sure our tea is ready.” Deborah took her hostess’s arm and guided her back to the entrance.
Passing through the attic, Deborah noticed chests and disused furnishings crowding the room.
“The castoffs of many generations,” Mrs. Hunter said with a smile. “I suppose I ought to go through it all and dispose of half of it, but it seems such a lot of trouble. I believe I’ll let Edward do it one day.”
Deborah smiled and ran her hand over a smooth old wooden frame. “Did you ever use this loom?”
“No, not me. That belonged to my late husband’s grandmother. Lucy Hamblin Hunter, she was. They say she wove the finest linen in the province. Of course, there weren’t too many weavers in Maine then to compete with her.”
Deborah laughed. “I admire her patience. It’s all I can do to crochet a doily.”
“Sometime I will show you the table linen she wove. I have several pieces she made. Why, it must have been almost a hundred years ago now. They say she married her husband while he was in prison.”
Deborah stared at her in the dim light, wondering if Mrs. Hunter was teasing her. “In prison? What for?”
“Murder. Nothing less. But he was acquitted, and he and Lucy lived a long and happy life together in a little cabin not many miles from here. It was their son who went to sea and became the first Captain Hunter.”
“I like that story.” Deborah took Mrs. Hunter’s hand and walked slowly down the steps with her. When they had descended into the upstairs hall and the attic door was shut behind them, she said, “Thank you for taking me up. I do love it on the widow’s walk.”
Mrs. Hunter smiled and patted her arm. “It’s a joy to me when I see your face light up. I don’t go up so much myself … not since Jeremiah died, God rest his soul.”
“You do miss him a lot, don’t you?” Deborah walked slowly with her toward the main staircase.
“Every minute I miss him. I used to go up there and look over at the docks. I can see the warehouse from up there. Sometimes I would see him turning the corner of the street on his way home. I’d wave to him, then rush down the stairs to meet him.” Her dreamy smile told Deborah she was off in another, more pleasant time. “But then, with him and Edward both dead, as we all supposed, I stopped going up to the roof. It seemed too morbid. I didn’t want folks saying, ‘There’s the widow mourning her menfolk’ and pitying me.”
“People don’t pity you,” Deborah assured her. “You’re far too alive. You don’t mope about.”
“Don’t I?”
Mrs. Hunter’s eyes twinkled, and Deborah laughed.
“No, you most decidedly don’t.”
“Well, in any event, climbing those stairs is getting to be quite an exertion for me.”
“Come,” Deborah said. “I smell something tasty.”
A few minutes later, they were seated in Mrs. Hunter’s cozy sitting room. Deborah much preferred it to the larger front parlor. This small, paneled room was full of bright cushions and enameled boxes of many colors and designs. She knew that Mr. Hunter had presented the boxes to his wife one at a time, either when he returned from a voyage or when a ship docked after a long trading excursion, laden with exotic wares. When Deborah visited, her hostess let her handle and admire them as much as she liked. She fingered the brightly painted ones from the Orient as the maid laid out their refreshment.
After Jenny had left the room, Deborah sat down and Mrs. Hunter poured out their tea.
“Quite an announcement after church on Sunday.”
“Yes.” Deborah busied herself with the sugar tongs, not sure she could meet the lady’s gaze without bursting out in either laughter or tears. The public reading of the marriage intentions of Mr. Jacob Price and Miss Abigail Bowman had left her torn.
“You don’t seem elated at the news. But then, neither do you seem dismayed.”
Deborah couldn’t help smiling then. “You must understand my mixed feelings. I’m happy for my sister, but only because she is happy.”
“Tut! My nephew Jacob is a good lad. He’s risen above his father’s humble station. He has his mother’s wits.”
“It wasn’t my intent to disparage Jacob,” Deborah said. “I believe he will make Abby a good husband.”
“But?”
“But I feel disappointed for Edward.”
Mrs. Hunter snorted and set her teacup down. “Edward is not weeping. Neither should you be.”
Deborah blinked. It was an alien concept that Edward might be pleased with Abby’s rejection of him. Was he relieved to be freed from their engagement? She wondered what he had told his mother after Abby revealed her decision to him. Was it possible that in time he might think of courting another? Of course, that would be the natural course of things after his wounded heart had healed, but how feasible was it that he would be captivated by a woman he considered an adolescent tomboy? Deborah shoved the thoughts away. She didn’t dare hope that he might turn his affections her way. He was a family friend now. That was all. It meant nothing, and she mustn’t read too much into the recent visit he’d made with Jacob.
She reached for a raisin cake and smiled at her hostess. “All right. I shall cease mourning the rift between him and Abby.”
“As is proper. This is a time to rejoice with your sister.”
Deborah bit into the cake, considering that. For the past few days, she’d felt more like rejoicing than she had since the day she first saw Edward returned from the deeps. But she was afraid to let her heart run too far astray. Every time she thought much about Edward and her growing feelings for him, she felt guilty. And when she considered whether or not he might ever return them, she felt obliged to quickly stifle that train of thought. She would only lay herself open for disappointment if he did not reciprocate. Time to change the subject.
“Mm, this cake is delicious. Did you make it, or did Jenny?”
“She did,” Mrs. Hunter said. “I’m lucky to have that girl. She has a proper touch with the bake oven. But neither she nor I can wait to try cooking on the new stove my son has ordered for me.”
“You are getting a cookstove?”
“Yes, I am. It will be prodigious fun. Would you like to come round when it’s here and practice with me?”
“I’d love to.”
Mrs. Hunter nodded. “We can make a huge pot of chicken stew without stooping over a hearth or catching sparks on our skirts. We’ll do it on a Thursday, and you and Abigail can take it around to the widows and orphans.”
“That would be wonderful. Some of them are so poor they rarely have meat on their tables.”
�
�Then we’ll do it and bake a basket full of biscuits from white flour to go with it.”
“That will be a scrumptious treat for them. Does this mean you will share with me your secret for making biscuits?”
Mrs. Hunter paused as if it were a novel thought, then smiled. “I believe I shall. But you must be careful whom you share it with.”
“I shall indeed.”
They shared a smile of conspiratorial friendship.
“Of course,” Mrs. Hunter said primly, “if Edward had married your sister, I’d have told her.”
The implications of this were not lost on Deborah, and she felt her face flush.
“Abby didn’t mean to be unkind to him.”
“Of course not. But my Edward was always adventurous, perhaps more than she realized. And I’ll not deny his experience of the last five years has changed him. He’s more passionate now, more eager to make his mark on the world. I suppose that’s because he nearly lost the chance.”
Deborah tilted her head to one side, mulling that over. Everyone had agreed that Jacob had done fine while he was in charge of the business, and Mrs. Hunter had no complaints about his management. But Edward would do better than fine. His plans for the company, which he’d discussed with her father after the service on Sunday, were ambitious and bold. He would put his heart into the business and run with it, making Hunter Shipping even greater if God would allow it.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said to his mother. “His new passion is an extension of his fight for survival on the island.”