The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  She tucked the letter carefully among the books in her satchel. Living at the edge of the old town as she did, her path home skirted the sea. All before her was gray: land and sky and ocean. Then, out on the colorless water, she spotted a fisherman in a white skiff. He made no sound at all as he moved about adjusting his lines, baiting one long silver thread with a shiny blue chunk of squid flesh. He was undoubtedly fishing for flounder in the still winter gloaming. He moved like a dream figure against the drained sky and the motionless sea.

  Millie felt the hush of all creation settle upon her as she labored up the exposed incline, her feet sinking into the coarse-grained sand, rough with dank weeds and sea stones thrown up by the tide. Daniel had seen him and spoken with him. That made it seem less impossible to her that Nicholas had once walked here by her side. She spied a small, perfect cat’s paw shell and scooped it up with her fingers.

  By the time Millie reached her cottage the wind had undone her and she felt herself a mere raveling, a small, anchorless bit of flotsam that the sea of humanity had tossed upon the shore for the wind to have sport with.

  She put her books on her father’s desk but propped the letter against her mother’s cruet set on the dining table, anticipating it, saving it as a child would a longed-for treat. After she had eaten her warmed-up broth and a slice of cold pie she reached for it, all at once impatient, her fingers clumsy as she unfolded the sheets.

  The date at the top of the page read 10 December 1838.

  Dear Millicent,

  Can you imagine my feelings when an old seaman, bent with age and stiff bones, appeared at my door with your name on his lips and a familiar look about him? He placed your letter in my hand—a slim, light treasure, like yourself—and suddenly everything came back to me. I could smell Gloucester and hear the aged—ageless—men telling tales in their low, unhurried voices, and I remembered that Daniel himself had been one of them, and you were here with me as surely as he was, your hair as yellow as butter beneath the sun, your eyes as deep and patient and unfathomable as the sea.

  Daniel and I spent a delightful evening in the brown belly of Brother Hines’s Grog Shop. Yes, he has been baptized—precipitately, in my opinion. Oh, he’s awfully sincere. But he goes about “business as usual” and has in no visible way altered his habits or beliefs.

  Following the pleasure of time spent with Daniel, I turn to this even more welcome task of penning my thoughts and experiences for you. But the first thing I must address is surely not my adventures and mishaps, but yours. In the death of your father you have suffered an overwhelming loss. Now, with no one to care for you, no family of your own, my thoughts grow even more tender toward you, and I long to be able to comfort you—

  “Don’t say with your Mormon beliefs!” Millie muttered the words aloud, hesitant to go on and be exposed to his misguided zeal, which merely frustrated and disappointed her.

  —and ease the suffering you are experiencing.

  Millie sighed in relief. Did this mean he was willing to accept her as she was, and to not change her?

  But if I am not allowed to help you, I have been given the opportunity to help those around me. Winter settles in here and one of the specters he brings with him is the dreaded diphtheria. The young and the weak are, of course, the first to succumb. It is terrible to behold, Millicent, and it troubles me deeply, for I hate nothing more than watching senseless suffering and being unable to offer assistance. But this once it has been different. There is a family who lives below us, a mother, two sons, a small daughter, and a drunken father. The woman, Laura Williams, is thin and hollow-eyed and suffers terribly at the hands of her brutish husband, but she does not wear the beaten, hopeless expression common to most of the poor here. She has listened to us, though she will not attend meetings in fear of the beatings her husband has promised if he should discover her. Yet she has taken a Book of Mormon, which she conceals but is able to read often since the man of the household is seldom about. All three of her little ones are ill, their condition worsening daily for lack of proper nourishment and care.

  Sister Parker, whose house we live in, is a kindly old soul. At times she takes soup down to the children and sits by their bedside so that their mother might sleep.

  On the very night of old Daniel’s appearance, Mrs. Williams knocked at our door. The hour was late, but her husband was still off with his drinking companions, and in her desperation she approached us. With a faith that surprised me she asked us to administer to her children.

  We went with her gladly into the dank, dim quarters where the sick children lay. As I looked into her eyes, where despair and hope struggled, I thought of my own dear mother, who had watched her children die before her eyes. It had been years until she found courage to try again and build almost a second family with my sister and me. I did not wish this gentle young woman to suffer as my mother had suffered.

  Elder Howlitt and I placed our hands, one by one, on the heads of the restless, fevered children and pleaded with the Lord, through the influence of his holy priesthood, to spare their young lives. Mighty were the prayers I sent heavenward from the depth of my being that I might be worthy to serve as an instrument of his power and mercy, and not, through my weakness, thwart any of his designs.

  Immediately upon our administration a change could be divined. All three children fell into a peaceful slumber, and the following day, when we checked in upon them, their eyes were less fevered, their throats more open and clear. Their father, just rousing himself from a drunken stupor, handled us a bit roughly and threw us bodily out of his house. But no matter. The good had already been accomplished.

  I do not know how far we shall progress in teaching the gospel of Christ among these people. But in doing the deeds of Christ, I feel there is a great work we can do.

  It was obvious he had forgotten himself. He was not preaching to her or attempting to exert an influence upon her, rather, he was pouring forth the feelings of his soul without restraint. Millie felt as though she had inadvertently stumbled upon someone in the midst of earnest and private prayer. Yet her presence was not an intrusion; she sensed that it wasn’t. In some confusion she read on.

  What luxury for me to speak to you thus, through the pages of this letter! As the sacred season of Christmas approaches I shall hold in my heart this gift of your friendship, and the influence of your guileless spirit upon mine. Do not despair. You write of injustice, of God and his ways, of faith, of doubt. God’s ways never were man’s ways, he tells us. Be still and trust him. This is our task. He will not only “reward us in the end” but will bless us along the way. I know it! Do we not learn and progress from that which we suffer? Do we not grow tender hearts in the process? What gives us power to keep striving—to rise above any and all things? His love. I pray for an abundance of that love to rest upon you, Millicent, today, tomorrow, and through all the days of your life.

  God bless and keep you, dear Miss Cooper. More later, I promise.

  Your friend,

  Nicholas Todd

  He had preached to her in the end. But it felt different. His words were a balm and a comfort, not a sting of contention. They could not conceal the faith and insight of his spirit. Before the force of it Millicent felt like a lost and bewildered child.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Luther came early. Millie could see the restlessness in his eyes when he first looked at her. She thought, If I were to give him his desire and marry him, how long could I hold him before his own restlessness drove him away from me?

  “I cannot abide it,” he told her, with a vehemence that did not surprise her. “One day longer cooped up in that building and I’d have gone mad.”

  “And you’re here for your answer?”

  “Well, yes, Millie, that’s what I’m here for. But you need not be so blunt about it.”

  “I’ve had all winter to think . . .”

  He didn’t like the tone of her voice; she co
uld see that in his eyes.

  “And to get caught up in that schoolmarm business,” he growled.

  With an effort Millie ignored his remark and the irritation it caused her. “If I were to marry you this spring,” she said, watching him carefully, “what would you do?”

  “Do?” His eyes were as open and devoid of cognizance as a child’s. “Set up housekeeping and have some grand times together before I go out to sea.”

  She knew what he meant, and just what he was looking forward to. “When would you go?”

  “Billy Turner over in Medford is skipper of the Suzanna, an East India vessel. He’ll be working on her rigging ’til May, most probably. With my winter earnings I can buy third shares in a little Chebacco with Pinky Jones and Andrew Hawley. That means we’d be after haddock and cod out at Old Man’s Pasture and Spot o’ Rocks ’til the Suzanna was ready.”

  “And then you’d go with her?”

  “Course, Millie. Yes.”

  He did not understand her. He probably never would. But she understood him—too well for her own good. She had grown up learning that understanding as she learned to walk and speak. She had nearly forgotten that this was part of the reason she had left Gloucester in the first place.

  “The Chebacco boat—that’s nice, Luther. I’m happy for you. Go out with your friends and enjoy her. After you return from the Suzanna’s voyage, we’ll talk again.”

  “That will be months, maybe a year from now.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you’d rather sit home a lonely and barren thornback than the wife of a seaman?”

  “Stop it, Luther! Don’t use that word! Don’t be cruel. I told you I wasn’t sure.”

  “And I told you what I thought of that!”

  “So it wouldn’t be wise for us to marry like this, Luther.” Millie placed her hand on his arm. It felt so firm and muscular, so warm with life beneath her touch.

  “Millie, I want to take care of you. I want to be with you.”

  She leaned her head against his great chest, suddenly weary. He made it sound so simple. Perhaps there was something wrong with her. But right now she could not help it. Right now she could not love him, not in the way he wanted, much least in the way that was essential for her.

  “You’re a good man, Luther,” she said, her voice muffled against the rough cotton of his shirt. “More’s the pity that you’ve fallen in love with me and not some sane, normal lass.”

  “ ’Tis you I want and no other,” he said, wrapping his long arms around her. “Those you speak of cannot hold a man’s interest. But you—you I could come home to for the rest of my life and grow old with.”

  His arms were insistent, his heart beating against her cheek, the words he had spoken still soft in her ears. He kissed her once, hard. “There’s no other, is there, Millie?” He spoke the words roughly and, when she did not answer him, bent to kiss her again. But his question hung in the air long after he left her and, with the singsong persistence of a children’s rhyme, ran over and over again through her mind.

  * * *

  It was spring. Millie’s fingers were itching for the feel of needle and thread and the touch of fine cloth. For a long time she had been considering what she would do. Once she made up her mind, it took no time at all before her mother’s kitchen was transformed into a sewing room, with butcher paper patterns, threads and trimmings, and snippets of cloth scattered over the floor for the mice to find. Many of the children in Mr. Erwin’s school were poorly clad. Millie knew their families were struggling to make a living from land or sea. Now that warm weather was here she could not bear to see the little girls smothered in their heavy woolen skirts and stockings. She had brought yards of calico from Boston which she could make into small pantalets, and tinted muslins for aprons and frocks, with perhaps enough left to make shirts for the young boys.

  Her fear was that the parents would be unwilling to accept such gifts from the teacher lady, or even be offended by what might look like charity. After some thought she determined to offer prizes for high achievement in spelling, history, and elocution, as well as rewards to those who would memorize the Declaration of Independence, Patrick Henry’s “War Inevitable” speech, or some of the wise maxims of President Washington. At the same time she planned to approach some of the parents with the request that they allow her to sew frocks for their children, as a means of advertisement in hopes of securing clients for her seamstressing skills—although she knew there was scanty call for such work in Gloucester, where the folk dressed simply and every housewife possessed the basic ability to clothe her own family. But Millie was pleased with her own cleverness, and with the apparent success of her scheme. As she cut and stitched and hemmed night after night, after her lessons for the next day were completed, she took great pleasure in watching her small creations take shape before her eyes. If she was occasionally struck with a qualm, wondering if she ought to be sewing her own wedding gown, she was able to put such thoughts aside. Instead she wrote to Verity, boasting a little at how handsome her new clothes looked and lamenting the fact that she was not there to sew for the baby that would be coming. She was a little worried about Verity and the others; she had not received a letter since long before Christmas, and heaven knew what sorts of things might be going on in that hostile wilderness where Judith had dragged them.

  One midafternoon she walked to the post office to mail a letter to Verity. She carried one in her pocketbook for Nicholas as well. Ought she to post it? She had already answered the letter Daniel had brought her in February. Now the blustery days of March had drawn to a close, and she had not heard from either him or the girls. Would it be too forward to write him again?

  She stood at the dusty counter waiting for Almira Fenn to come out from the back. Millie avoided encounters with Almira whenever she could, especially since Luther’s return. The woman had a sour soul to begin with, and now that Millie had offended Luther, who was the apple of her eye, there was little patience extended toward her. Indeed, Almira usually refused to even speak to Millie when they passed on the street. But today it was Amos, Luther’s brother, who came to wait on her. So Millie gave him both letters, asked politely after the family, and made her escape.

  An hour later, when Millie was bent again over her sewing, Almira Fenn stood sorting her letters. When she saw the one for Far West, Missouri, she weighed it in her hand a moment, considering. “Better not tamper with this’un,” she muttered under her breath. She tossed it into the mail sack. But the one following, addressed to Liverpool, England, she snatched with an exclamation of glee.

  “I knew it!” She rubbed her thin, scratchy hands together. “The nerve of the hussy! For the life of me, I don’t know why my Luther wants her!”

  But she did know. She knew Millie was keen and clearheaded, and well trained in womanly skills. And she was pretty, the prettiest girl in Gloucester by far. If she had traveled to the city and put on fancy airs, well, even that added to her unspoken mystique and probable superiority—that is, granted that Luther could make her his wife.

  With her thin, strong fingers Almira tore the envelope and the sheets it contained into little pieces and threw them into the fire, where they curled and charred and were consumed in a matter of seconds. Then she went on with her work.

  * * *

  Millie heard the happy peal of the church bells before she opened her eyes. They would sing out continuously for the next two hours until the schooners, white and shining, pulled away from the harbor. The Suzanna had been made ready in good time, and today Luther was to sail out on her, eager as a boy for the adventure ahead of him.

  By the time Millie was dressed and ready the fish horns were blowing, a deep, throaty counterpart to the high, piercing clang of the bells. The wharves were crowded with families, the women and children sporting their best hats and pinafores. With a sense of satisfaction Millie noted several of her
own creations among the bright throng.

  They that go down to the sea in ships, Millie thought as she watched men gently tear themselves away from the clinging hands of wives and children. She noticed one little boy who would not release his tight hold round his father’s leg, so his father allowed him to ride there, halfway up the gangway, before letting him go. Surely the bells and flags, and the pipes Blind Billie was playing from his seat on the pilings—surely all this was but to cover the fear and the anguish of parting.

  Luther’s family was here, crowded about him, Almira smoothing his shirt front and collar. He left them when he caught sight of Millie, walking with slow deliberation until he stood very close to her. The sea breeze lifted the light strands of his hair. The skin of his face was tanned a warm golden color by his weeks spent out past Eastern Point, and Millie could see the sea in his eyes.

  He placed his big, warm hands on her face and pulled her toward him. He kissed her a long time before releasing her. She noticed several young boys snickering as they watched. She saw a line of white gulls dipping and rising from the glassy blue surface of the water.

  “When I come back,” Luther said, “there won’t be any more asking.” They were a seaman’s bold words. But then he parted her hair and placed his lips against her ear and the soft skin of her neck. “When I come back I will marry you, Millie, and that is that.” She closed her eyes and he kissed her again. She thought of her mother and wondered how many times this had happened for her and what she had thought when she sent off her man—they that do business in great waters—and walked back in silence to the emptiness of her house and the emptiness of her life.

  Millie turned and walked all the way home as soon as Luther boarded his ship and was lost to her sight. She did not wish to see the lilting, graceful vessels file out of the harbor, round Mussel Point and Eastern Point, and head out to sea. She did not wish to be drawn into conversation with the other women who, seeing her with Luther, would assume that she felt as they did. Millie had no idea what she was feeling. But at least her life was not quite empty, thank heavens. She had the school, and books to read, and her garden. If she was aware that despite all these things she was still alone, with no child, no friend, no mortal soul to hold close to her, she did not acknowledge it. Only the foolish and thoughtless acknowledged such things.