Verity’s feet moved slowly as she approached the last stop on her pilgrimage. King’s Chapel looked stolid and severe in the gray glow. No signs of life here, no movement, no shadow. She was grateful for that. She slipped through the gate to the little path that ran by the side of the chapel. Governor John Winthrop was buried here, as well as many other great men. But close by the path was the humble stone marker of Elizabeth Pain, who had worn a scarlet A on her breast. She had loved her minister, and he had returned her love. She bore him a child outside of wedlock, and all her long life her pious neighbors had forced her to wear the scarlet letter of shame.
Verity touched the cool stone with her fingertips. “Good-bye,” she said softly. “Your life is done. You are free of it now, whatever its sorrows, whatever its pains. You bore yours well, I know you did. I only pray that I can.” She raised her eyes to seek the grave of Mary Chilton, the first woman to step from the Mayflower onto New England soil.
Oh, Father, she cried in her heart, I leave you in good company, I know. But it is a sore thing for your daughter to be torn from your side. She stumbled toward the slight rise of ground where her father was buried. She was crying openly now, and past caring. The silence seemed loud to her, with a terrible, unvoiced lamenting that shivered along her spine and made her feet feel like dead weights as she moved among the tall, unmown grass. At last she dropped clumsily to her knees and pressed her forehead against the unyielding stone.
“Oh, Father,” she moaned. “How can I do this thing? How can I do it?”
As she knelt there on the ground, chilled by the damp and the shadows within her heart, it seemed the last vestiges of her girlhood dropped away. She remembered the day she had boasted to Millie that she would not give in this time. But she knew now that nothing in life was as simple as that. She was beginning to see with the clarity of a woman’s gaze, whether she wished to or not. She closed her eyes and drew into her the comfort and peace of the place. The conviction came strongly that this all belonged to her; she could take it all with her wherever she went. She need not be bereft as long as memory was her comforter and faith was her guide.
When Verity rose at last her eyes were dry and there was enough peace in her heart to allow her to walk home free from the terrible pain that had gripped her before. Home. The word would mean something different to her from this day forward, and for the rest of her life.
They left by sea. It was the sea that would bear them away on her breast. There would be a long overland journey to follow, but Millie thought it fitting that the ocean should part them. It had ever been thus in her life.
A terrible loneliness encased her as the time of departure drew near. It seemed to eat away her insides, leaving a hollow feeling similar to the emptiness she had felt when her mother died. She tried to chide herself, talk herself out of it. What were these people to her? Acquaintances of a few years only. She’d had a life of her own before them; she could have one again. Such friendships as theirs were a fleeting blessing, not a stable feature of life one could count on continuing indefinitely. Actually, as she well knew, most of the best things in life were fleeting and hard to lay hold of. Nothing in life ever continued unchanged.
With such gloomy thoughts crowding her mind she stood on India Wharf, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as well as with the glare of the sun on the water. Leah clung to her hand, and the realization struck her suddenly that the girl was afraid, truly so. She gave the small, damp fingers a squeeze.
“Don’t worry, Leah. Your mother will take good care of you, and you have Verity. All will turn out well in the end.” The sound of her voice saying the words gave them a weight of reality she had not afforded them before.
“Come, Miss Thatcher. All is ready for you ladies to board. Take my arm, and I’ll help you.”
Edgar Gray had come up behind them. Millie glowered at him from beneath her bonnet, but he didn’t notice. His large, expressive eyes were filled with an obvious tenderness as he took the hand Leah offered him.
“Good-bye, Millie, good-bye!” Leah kissed her hand to her friend, and her eyes filled with tears as she clung to the large-framed Elder Gray and hurried toward the ship.
“You will write, as you promised, Millie?” Verity’s voice revealed the tight control she struggled to maintain, but her hand trembled visibly as she placed it on Millie’s arm. “Sisters of spirit,” Verity whispered.
Millie nodded. “I shall never forget,” she said, tears brimming her eyes now. “I shall never care for you less than I do at this moment, no matter how many years pass between us.”
“Time and distance cannot alter our affection for one another,” Verity echoed. “And in letters we’ll share the hopes and longings of our spirits, as we have these past years.” Her eyes were wet and shining, but she went on bravely. “And, Millie dear, if you become altogether too lonely in Gloucester, will you come to us? Promise?”
Millie nodded again. Verity gathered her into her arms and held her fiercely a moment. Then she released her, turned, and walked resolutely toward the ship. Millie did not wait to see her friend board, to watch her become a small shape among many shapes crowding the decks. She had experienced too many such leave-takings. She turned and worked her way through the press of people, carts, and animals until she was free of them all and only the salt air, strong in her nostrils, remained with her. She fled, as from the phantoms of every fear and suffering she had ever felt in her life. All was over. They were gone. Standing and staring after them with burning eyes would not change things one bit. Her own bags were packed and ready. She would catch the train to Gloucester and be home within hours. Time enough then to think and plan. Time enough then to grieve.
On board the vessel, Verity did the same thing. She refused to stand on deck, staring pathetically out at the sea of faces that stared back at her. All was past now. Boston was forever behind them. She could envision no future, and the here and now was so distasteful, so precarious, that she must take it one breath at a time or be overwhelmed by it.
She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder and lifted her eyes reluctantly to meet her warm, steady gaze.
“This is more of a beginning than you know, dear heart. Remember what your father always said? ‘God is nothing more to us than we allow him to be.’ ” She reached out suddenly and clasped Verity’s hand with a pressure that ached. “He must be our all now, Verity. God must mean all to us now.”
Verity closed her eyes and fashioned her mother’s words into a prayer in her heart.
Chapter Five
The road to Gloucester had a cleansing effect on Millicent’s mind. The coastline, chiseled and torn by the sea, was nowhere more beautiful. In many places forests of tall pines, so green they looked almost black in the weak afternoon light, marched down their slopes to the coast, crowding the uneven stretch of white, wet sand. Topping the rise of a little hill, her first view of the Cape Ann coast stretched before her. The water was placid and blue, as gentle as the May day itself.
Eager to feel the sandy soil beneath her feet, Millie sent her luggage on ahead and walked along the narrow, meandering streets of the town. It seemed every little road somehow rambled down to the sea. She could hear the gentle mew of the gulls and the startling cry of a curlew mingling his voice with the melodious swell of the surf breaking over the land. She closed her eyes and drew into her lungs the smell of Gloucester, a rare mingling of the flesh and bones of countless codfish, perch, and whiting; the oil and hemp and wet wood of the dark ships that rolled in the bay; and the sea—the tang and bite of air blowing in from islands and continents, shoals and reefs strange and exotic; drawing with it the breath of all places and all creatures it moved upon. Since 1623, when the first Adventurers colony was established here, Cape Ann men had drawn their livelihood from the sea. Three years after the Pilgrims landed, Gloucester’s men were exporting dried codfish. Their fleet was now the oldest in all of America, and noted y
et as among the most valiant in the world. Over two centuries of seafaring had weathered the town’s wharves and narrow streets, and the faded roofs and spires had been blown gray and brittle by the ceaseless wind streaming in from the sea.
Millie stopped at one of the shops to buy bread, cheese, and salted smelt to make up a quick evening meal. She would worry about household staples tomorrow, after opening the house and determining just what was needed. For now she was content to trudge up the last stretch to the gentle grassy knoll where her father’s house rested, seeming to rise out of the earth itself, as naturally as rock and tree did. No one had been inside the house these many months, with her father off on a whaler out of Nantucket and herself in service in Boston. Perhaps they both had avoided the house since her mother’s death. But that had been nearly three years ago. Time enough, surely, to lay her ghost and get on with their own lives.
Millie fitted the key into the lock, and it turned with a loud, rusty protest. She pushed the door open and entered the dimly lit room. She was greeted by the pleasant, musky smell of dried herbs and the instant awareness of loved, familiar things about her: her mother’s rocker in the corner with her Oriental shawl draped over one arm, as though she had just left for a moment to put the kettle on for tea; her father’s old black sea chest against the far wall; the corner what-not shelf displaying some of the curiosities her father had brought back from his trips to Lisbon, East India, Amsterdam, and the Western Islands. Those were the days, she thought, sinking unconsciously into the rocker. Childhood was long and sweet then, and at the end of her dreams was always the coming of her father’s ship, like some grand dream of its own, bringing back the whiskered half-stranger who hugged her against the rough wool of his coat and kissed her mother until her cheeks turned red, and dug from the depths of his sea bag the most incredible treasures: carved ivory boxes and miniature animals, silk scarves, rare cottons and nankeens, sugar, exotic tobaccos and fruits, and, once, a doll dressed in a bright flowered kimono, with wooden shoes on her feet, a shock of black hair, and a curved mouth like a small red bow against the pale porcelain of her face. Oh, the magic, mingled with the quiet joy of being together again!
The memories were suddenly too bright. Like morning sun slanting off the sea, they hurt Millie’s gaze and accentuated the dull gray reality around her. She leaned forward and blew a layer of fine dust from one of the shelves. It billowed around her like specks of fairy powder, then settled again. There was no life in these rooms, only memories.
She rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill pass over her skin, though the sleeves of her rust-print dress went to her wrists and her fichu was still draped round her shoulders. The truth of it was, Millie was all alone in the world, or might as well have been. Her father was some place or other, at the other end of the world, and with the practical honesty of experience she knew that he may never return. The friends who were dearest to her were halfway across this vast country, meaning to live in a society that was as alien to her as any her father had witnessed, and they would never return. Of that she was certain. How dreary the prospect! A pox on the Mormons and their radical audacity. They had robbed her, and she entertained the most unkindly thoughts about them as she rose and made preparations to sweep out the room before taking her solitary supper, with nothing but the whispers and shadows of memory for company.
Gloucester was a thriving seaport these days. The Sandy Bay Breakwater, which the government had begun to construct the year before, protected the fishing coves on the exposed side of Cape Ann and brought new families and trade to the area. But “the harbor” in the heart of Gloucester itself remained the hub of all activity. In the heart of Gloucester lived the old families who not only minded change, indeed, who tended to shun it. Thus, it took Millie no time at all to realize the subtle alteration in her status among the townsfolk. She was looked upon as part of the change. She had been gone these three years and had come back with city clothes and city tastes. They were wary of her. In what other ways might she have changed? She was no longer comfortably and entirely like them. She understood how they felt—understood why the young women going to market gave her a wide berth when they passed on the streets; why the old women did not include her on their rounds of visits from door to door, exchanging tidbits of news and baked goods and herbal remedies; why the men down by the waterfront mending nets and exchanging yarns shut up like clams when she ventured too close. She understood, but it hurt just the same. She took to wearing the old, plain shawls and dresses she had packed away when she left for the city. She took care to buy in the same shops that had served her mother and father since before she could remember, although as she glanced through the windows of some of the new places she could see enticing wares she had grown accustomed to in Boston. Perhaps in time. Millie knew how to be patient. This was her home, and worth being patient for. But then something happened, something that changed things beyond her wishes or control.
Early on a fair June morning Millie was weeding in the garden. She had been home for nearly five weeks. In that time she had pruned and nourished and planted, and the results were pleasing. Right now the grass at her feet was blue with pretty Gill-go-over-the-ground, and her mother’s rich red wallflowers and hollyhocks were as lush as she had ever seen them. She had planted additional tea roses, poppies, pinks, sweet peas, and much more, not to speak of her herbs in the far sunny corner. Here she had gone a bit wild. In addition to basil, bay, and bergamot, and half a dozen various mints, she had angelica, borage—which the bees loved—sage, chamomile for teas, chives, comfrey, coriander, and fennel. The list went on and on. Each herb had half a dozen uses and pleasures that she had seemed to grow up knowing but that she now realized had been taught to her by her mother in wise, natural ways.
Her mother was everywhere about her. She was thinking, as she dug at the clover and mallow and uprooted a tough clump of plantain, of what her mother might have been like when she had made this cottage her home and planted the first fruits and flowers, then later the herbs and spices her husband brought back from all parts of the world. She had been young then, and Millicent had not been her first child. There had been two little sons, but both had died of diphtheria before she was born. Millie knew little more than that they had been born within a year of each other and had died within the same week, and were buried down by the bayberry bushes that skirted her father’s property.
Millie’s parents never spoke of their lost children, but Millie had felt that her father sorely missed the companionship of sons to raise up to his trade, and that her mother missed the calm, steady help a son would have been when her husband was gone with the ships and she could have used a strong hand. Millie had done all she could to compensate, improving every household skill her mother introduced her to—doing the hard, heavy work of washing, perfecting soap and candle making to such a degree that the fragrance and texture of her bayberry was admired by all the village women, which was high praise indeed. She could do little to break into the world of her father, no matter how hard she begged and pleaded with him. But as she grew older she took over the task of laundering his heavy wools and cottons. Then once he cut his arm badly and was out of commission for over a week, right at the beginning of July when he needed to get ready for the trolling of the great swordfish—that could be done at no other time of the year. So, grudgingly, her father had taught her how to use the various needles—some curved, some straight, some fashioned of bone—to make the different stitches needed to mend his nets and thick canvas sails. Millie had a natural skill with cloth and needle, but it was not her father’s way to praise her. Nevertheless, from then on it was she, not her mother, who acted as seamstress for him.
Millie was deep in reverie, tugging away at the past, when the stranger approached her. She resented the interruption and dropped her tools with an ill-concealed reluctance.
“I beg your pardon, miss. That’s a fine garden you’ve got there. But I was wondering if you might assist me
for a moment.”
Millie raised an eyebrow at his clumsy praising of her work. He spoke with the accent of a stranger; he was from nowhere around these parts.
“Yes?” She made the word a question that invited nothing more than was necessary. Yet the stranger stood back upon his heels and smiled.
“You do have the prettiest yellow hair I’ve ever seen in my life.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to reach out and touch it.
Millie stood frozen in place.
“Soft,” he said. “Like the colors on a young fawn when the sun dapples its coat.”
She took a good look at him, frank and open, a trait of her kind who must look life squarely in the face to be able to endure it at all. The stranger was young, with good, strongly drawn features: chiseled chin, fine cheekbones, a bit of a beak nose, but Millie didn’t like small, pinched noses on men. His skin was smooth, not tanned rough as were the faces of the men who made their living by wind and weather. His hair was thick, as blue-black as a raven’s wing where the sun lifted and lit it.
The Heart that Truly Loves Page 4