The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

Millie adjusted her bonnet and rubbed absently at a streak of dirt along her apron. “And just what may I do for you?”

  “I fear I am lost.”

  “In Gloucester!” The words came out unbidden. She couldn’t help smiling at the expression they brought to his face. “All roads here, sooner or later, lead down to the sea. And from the harbor you can find your way to any place in the world.” Her own boldness in bantering him astounded her. She felt heat rise to her face and suppressed an urge to lift her hand to her cheek.

  He was a good sport. “ ’Tis embarrassing enough, miss, without you making it worse. Do you happen to know a Jonathan Hammond?”

  She didn’t. But when he described where he lived, she said, “That sounds like the old Copley place off Norman Avenue, just below Hesperus Road. But no one’s lived there for years.”

  “That’s the place. Mr. Hammond purchased it six months ago. It’s getting to be quite livable.”

  “He’s one of the new ones, then.” Millie pushed her bonnet back from her forehead. “And is he a landlubber as well?”

  The stranger smiled again. “Yes, I suppose you could call him that. He’s a businessman, really, and has plans to build an ironworks factory hereabouts. But I don’t truly know much about that. I am merely his guest, and an unexpected one, to boot. But I am trying to earn my keep by helping with the building and refurbishing. There is certainly enough to be done. And I’m more handy than some with a saw and a hammer.”

  He was rambling on as though they were old acquaintances. Millie stiffened and took a step back. The stranger was quick to sense things.

  “Forgive me, miss,” he said. “I have not even introduced myself. Nicholas Todd, at your service.” He touched the rim of the low cap he wore.

  She nodded, reluctant still. “Millicent Cooper,” she offered at last. “And I can point you safely back to where you came from. It’s not really far from here.”

  It hadn’t been by the route Millicent gave him that he had wandered her way, though he had rambled aimlessly, deep in the sights and impressions around him. He had no choice then, really, but to thank her and leave.

  Millie watched him start down the road. She liked his long, easy stride, the way his shoulders and hips moved. For some reason he disquieted her. She turned back to the earth, which was still disturbed by her diggings. But it was too warm now to be working outdoors. She picked up her things and walked back into the dim coolness of the cottage. It was so still here, so silent, that she could hear the distant whisperings of the sea. So different from Boston. But she liked it. Or, at least, she always had liked it before. Inexplicably, the silence sat uneasily upon her this morning. Had the stranger done that?

  With a sigh of frustration she walked to the sink and began rinsing her hands. The cold water felt good against her skin. There was work in plenty to keep her mind occupied. Thank heaven for that.

  Chapter Six

  The hills above Gloucester were thick with ripe berries this time of year: blueberry, raspberry, gooseberry, and wild currant. Millie meant to harvest as much as she could over the next few weeks and to put up syrups and preserves against the winter months, as well as to enjoy them fresh with sugar and cream. The fragrance in the woods was a heady mingling of the ever-present sea air with gorse and yarrow, the mulch of leaves underfoot, and mosses, with small woodland flowers scattering a light scent over all.

  Millie was busy filling her pails, humming under her breath, when she heard the approach of someone or something. She looked up in alarm. She had been too long in the city. Solitude and its natural interruptions would never have caused her apprehension before.

  He saw her before she saw him, and he approached her with caution this time and a sense of reserve. Millie felt it and was not altogether sure she was pleased.

  “Miss Cooper, is it not? Millicent Cooper.” His smile, too, was slow. “We are well met, I hope.”

  “There are berries in plenty,” Millie replied, shifting her position slightly as if to make room for him. He did come up closer and begin to fill the basket he carried. After a few moments of silence she ventured, “You must serve in a variety of roles at Mr. Hammond’s.”

  Nicholas Todd relaxed a little. “You mean, are there no women or children in residence who could do the berry picking?” He swatted at a fat bee that was circling too close. “I’m afraid we are a bit short of such luxuries right now. Mr. Hammond does not have a wife.”

  “And yourself?” Millie asked the question casually, though she felt an annoying quickening of her pulse.

  “I have a sick companion. That’s why I’m out here in the first place, looking for luxuries to tempt his palate.” He saw the uncomprehending dismay on her features, and his expression grew kinder. “You see, I am a preacher of sorts,” he explained. “A missionary. We travel by twos, and we literally are companions.”

  Millie felt a chill at her heart. It could not be! No, it could not.

  “That sounds odd to me,” she said saucily. “Might you by any chance be Mormonites?”

  “Mormons. Yes. How did you know?”

  “A group of Mormons left these parts not long ago for the ungodly place where your kind have settled. What in the world brought you here?” She had blurted out the words before she could help it. Now she bit her tongue in annoyance at herself. But her dampened mood remained.

  “We are on our way to Great Britain.”

  “Great Britain! There are Mormons there, too?”

  “A great deal of us.” He was watching her closely, trying not to smile at her vexation, but curious, too. “How do you know anything about Mormons?”

  Millie did not wish to tell. She felt instinctively that it would put her at some disadvantage. Nor did she wish to answer his questions or to see his pleasure when he realized that friends of hers had been converted—and might he construe some hope from that fact?

  She remained quiet, as though he had never spoken. What ill luck! she was thinking. He appeared such a pleasant young man. Now all that is spoiled.

  “All right,” he said, drawing her back. “You don’t like Mormons much. I’m used to that.” And I refuse to be offended, his look implied.

  “What’s wrong with your friend?” Millie would not use the word companion.

  “We met with an accident some weeks ago on the Susquehanna. He suffered quite a gash in his leg and caught a bad chill. By the time we reached Boston it had turned into pneumonia.”

  “He must be very ill, then.”

  “Yes, yes he is. We knew Jonathan Hammond’s brother, who lives in the city. He sent us here. Elder Howlitt must have complete bed rest until his fever breaks.”

  “And after,” Millie cautioned. “Pneumonia is not a disease to take lightly.”

  “Well, he may not have the luxury of that. Depends in part when a ship arrives that will take us.”

  “You care so little for your friend’s well-being?”

  “We are greatly needed where we are going,” he tried to explain. “Besides, there are ways beyond medicine whereby—” He consciously stopped himself. “Never mind now. I shall take good care of him.” His eyes gently chided her. They were a deep blue, streaked and multi-shaded, more alive than his ebony hair.

  She looked away from his gaze. “I must go now,” she murmured.

  “Please don’t. Your bucket isn’t half full. Don’t let me chase you away.”

  Millie hesitated. “I’ll keep still, I promise,” Nicholas Todd said. “Or better yet, I’ll entertain you.” He turned his back on her and resumed picking, humming lightly under his breath. Then, suddenly, there were words and a rich, tender melody.

  Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you,

  Away you rollin’ river,

  Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you . . .

  Millie lowered her eyes, feeling shy in the presence of a young man singing as though he
were unaware of all else around him, even herself.

  Away, we’re bound away,

  ’Cross the wide Missouri. . . .

  When the first song was finished he went on to others.

  Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

  Which I gaze on so fondly today . . .

  Soon Millie relaxed and forgot herself, too, and let the music rush over her like the soft ocean wind.

  No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

  But as truly loves on to the close,

  As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

  The same look which she turned when he rose.

  Singing seemed as natural as talking or breathing to Nicholas Todd. Millie envied him that.

  “Here’s one for you,” he said, glancing at her sideways. He cleared his throat and began:

  I have a ship on the ocean,

  All lined with silver and gold,

  Before I’d see my true love suffer,

  That ship should be anchored and sold.

  He burst into the chorus, and she couldn’t help singing it with him under her breath. Then, before she knew it, she was singing lustily along:

  The wind blows cold in Cairo,

  The sun refuses to shine,

  Before I’d see my true love suffer,

  I’d work all the summertime.

  Both her buckets were heavy with fruit, and the young man’s basket was filled. There was no reason to linger any longer.

  “The sun’s hot,” Nicholas noted.

  “Yes, it usually is this time of day.” Millie lifted the pails and slung one over each arm. “Well, I guess I’d best get these home now.” She turned and took a few steps away from him.

  “Thank you for the company,” he said.

  She did not know what to reply to him. It was not until much later, as she lowered herself, hot and sticky with berry juice, onto the cool wood of the settle, that she realized she had not even thanked him for the songs he had sung. I’ll make up a nice gooseberry pie, she thought. His sick friend would enjoy that, and I would feel more comfortable myself. She disliked the idea of being beholden to a Mormon in any manner at all.

  * * *

  She took a small crock of strong borage tea along with the pie, which had turned out well, baked to a turn with a light, flaky crust. She had done little baking during her years in Boston, and so was all the more pleased with her success.

  The walk to the Copley place was pleasant in the cool evening air. She found herself humming the tune of the last song Nicholas Todd had sung; she couldn’t get it out of her mind. As she approached the house she hesitated a little, then chided herself for her cowardice and knocked with such energy on the door that it was flung open immediately and a startled face stared out at her.

  “What be the trouble, ma’am? What can we do for you?”

  “Are you Mr. Hammond?” Millie asked, feeling a bit foolish.

  “That I am.”

  “I am Millicent Cooper, and I have come to see your boarder . . . your . . . your guest,” she stammered.

  “Young Todd?” His voice was booming. His salt-and-pepper hair hung over his forehead, and curly mutton chops festooned his broad cheeks. “Bring yourself right in, miss, and I’ll go fetch him.”

  She walked timidly inside. Her host had already crossed the long room, bellowing for Nicholas as he went. It was easy to note the lack of a woman’s touch here. Glancing round, it appeared to Millie that chairs and tables had just been thrown together in any which way they landed. She felt her fingers itching for a feather duster to attack the layers of gray grime that sat over everything.

  “Miss Cooper! How kind!” Nicholas Todd had come up behind her. She started at the sound of his voice. A nice voice; not deep, and yet sonorous, with a pleasant lilt to it, like the lilt in his step. “What have you there?” Like a curious boy he peered over her shoulder, trying to see inside the basket she carried.

  “I’ve brought a fresh gooseberry pie,” she said. “I thought your sick friend might enjoy it.”

  “My sick friend? So there is to be none for me?” His eyes were sparkling, but he did not mean to discomfit her.

  “I made it for you as well. Payment for the songs,” she said.

  He took a step closer. “Those songs were free. How can a song be anything else, Millie?”

  A warmth spread through her at his words, and a sense of confusion. She lifted the cover on the basket. “I brought some strong borage tea for your friend as well. It is excellent for chills and fevers. In medieval times it was believed to comfort the heart and purify the blood.”

  “Is that so?” He was interested.

  “Yes.” She stumbled on. “It was also said that borage contained properties that would grant a man courage.” She shrugged her shoulders and drew her shawl a bit more snugly about her.

  “Comfort and courage,” Nicholas mused. “Well, bless your heart.” He removed the basket from her arm. “These kind gifts will be much appreciated.”

  “Yes, ’twas right kindly of you.” Mr. Hammond entered the room again, blaring out as he came. Millie raised her eyebrows, and he grinned at the gesture. “This young man here,” he continued, “isn’t like other men. Says he’s a minister of the gospel. Does he look like a minister of the gospel to you?” He winked at Millie with a bold, bright eye. He was enjoying himself. “Young man like him should be out courtin’. What do you say to that, miss?”

  “Leave her alone, John.” Nicholas moved so that he stood between them and the older man could not see the uncomfortable effect of his words. “Pay him no heed, Miss Cooper.”

  “I’d best be going,” she said.

  “Come again, my dear,” boomed Mr. Hammond. “Often as you like. We old bachelors could use a pretty face around here.”

  Nicholas opened the door and walked outside with Millie. “The man is hopeless,” he said. “But he means well.”

  Millie swallowed because her throat felt suddenly dry, and her hands were clammy. “Nevertheless, he was right back there, wasn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?” A shadow, brief but chill, passed over his features.

  “You aren’t like other men your age. Missionaries don’t mingle with young ladies. They don’t do anything but—” Millie could not go on. An anger that surprised her rose to choke her words.

  “Please . . . please tell me, just what do we do?”

  Millie made an impatient gesture with her hand and walked away from him.

  He matched his stride to hers. “Tell me, Millicent.”

  She turned, without knowing she would. “You entice innocent women in other ways. Entice them to leave their homes and beliefs of their fathers, to give up all that they have and go to some wretched place in the middle of nowhere—”

  Nicholas put his hand on her arm as if to stop her. She could not control her own trembling. “Miss Cooper, you do not understand.” He was grieved. There was a sorrow in his gaze that reached out to her. But she knew what she knew.

  “I understand! Far more than you realize.” She wrenched away from his touch and began to half run, half stumble away from him. He let her go. He had no right to do anything else. Mr. Hammond had spoken the truth and so had Millicent. He was not like other young men. He had a calling, a mission.

  He turned and walked slowly back to the house. Millie fled through the night, listening for the sound of his footsteps behind her. By the time she reached the cottage and let herself into its haven, there were hot tears in her eyes.

  Several days passed before Millie saw Nicholas Todd again. While going about daily errands, gardening, or even taking her evening walks along the shore, she had watched for him, half-expecting, half-dreading the sound of his voice or the sight of his tall, well-knit frame approaching her, his raven hair red-streaked beneath the
sun. She chided herself for having any thoughts of the young man at all. But life here was quiet, and sometimes her days edged on boredom, accustomed as she was to the social life of the city: luncheons at the Athenaeum, shopping at the new Faneuil Hall Marketplace, afternoon literary teas at the Old Corner Bookstore, and occasionally a play at the elegant theater on Washington Street. She had been in a position of service in the household, true, but her status had been ill-defined and unusual. When Judith had said that Millie had come to be as one of the family to them, she had been speaking the truth. There, for the first time, Millie had experienced what family life truly could mean, knowing nothing before but the kindly, though dour, association of her aging parents. She had loved the giggling and screeching, the girlish confidences and tears, even the emotional squabbling that went on between sisters. She had enjoyed being part of it all. She missed it more than she would allow herself to admit.

  It was early evening when she walked out, skirting the busy streets and veering off to a long, lonely stretch of sand where the shoreline curved and the tide rolled in gently. The day had been warm and fair. A mackerel sky danced above her, with row upon row of small, fleecy clouds, reminiscent of the blue-striped back of the silver-bellied mackerel. She hummed as she walked, thinking of nothing at all, giving herself over entirely to the beauty around her, until she almost felt that she herself was part of it, integral to the sand and the air, the sea and the sky. The cries of plovers and killdeer quavering over the water seemed to issue forth from the pulsings of her own heart, and the hushed wash of the sea upon land trembled against her warm, parted lips like a prayer.

  She walked the damp, darkened line of sand until her bare feet tingled with the chill of the spray and the hem of her skirt was wet nearly up to her knees. She never could get enough of the ocean; the sound of its desultory voice in her ears, the push of its sweet tide against her legs. She moved up the gentle slope and spread a blanket across the rough sand, then sat there with her knees hugged to her chin and looked out to sea.

  He whistled as he approached, so she saw him and was not caught off guard. He slowed uncertainly as he neared her, hesitating visibly, not certain whether to speak. He appeared to make up his mind, and said abruptly, “I have a new song for you. I learned it from the men on the wharves.”