The Movement of Stars: A Novel

by Amy Brill

  Dr. Hall stood as she approached.

  “Thee needn’t—please sit.”

  He lowered himself into his seat without bending his back. It had a

  regal effect. When he’d settled, he gestured to the chair beside him. She sank down, relieved to be tucked away in this familiar corner. From Dr. Hall’s porch, it was easy to pretend that nothing had changed. Behind the long, low candle warehouses across the street, dim streaks of light crisscrossed the horizon, the last remains of sunset. A few sparks glinted on the Bay. Hannah could hear the slap of water on the piles, seafoam sucking back from shore, and the distant cawing of the gulls circling the inner harbor. A hundred tiny boats bobbed in unison as if they were no more than paper shells. She inhaled deeply, a sigh of pleasure that sent a shiver down her back.

  Dr. Hall spoke first. He seemed in no hurry to get his words out, and his tone was such that Hannah had to lean in to hear.

  “What occurred at Meeting was unfortunate,” he said. “I imagine thee is suffering some regret.”

  Hannah rocked a little in the chair, enjoying the slight breeze created by the motion.

  “I regret that slander and hearsay made their way into a place I have always regarded as the realm of Truth,” she said, picking her way carefully. “I knew that people questioned my actions with regard to my student.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Hall wasn’t offering a twig of encouragement. A film of unease floated down from nowhere, and she planted both feet to stop the chair from moving.

  “I answered a request for improvement, and provided an opportunity for betterment to one who deserves such a chance. No more or less,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound defensive.

  “At the expense of thy own opportunities, it now appears.” Hannah couldn’t read his tone. Was he accusing her, or empathizing? He gazed out over the water, impassive, his cane resting across his lap.

  “That’s why I’m here, actually.” She cleared her throat. “My father believes I’m likely to lose my position at the Atheneum. If that happens, I’ll be forced to leave the Island immediately. I hoped that thee could intervene. If it comes to that.” Hannah dipped her head. She wasn’t trying to appear humble, but felt humiliated in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She’d arrived full of righteous energy, sure that Dr. Hall would clear the way for her to remain in her post. Now she felt like a supplicant.

  The seconds ticked by. His silence was excruciating.

  “It’s a delicate situation, my dear,” he said, still not looking at her. “Many of our neighbors feel that thee has not only skirted but flaunted Discipline in this matter.”

  “And thee is in agreement?” For a moment she felt a tenderness that bordered on pity. He’d been alone as long as she’d known him; his awkward proposal of marriage, even his rigid classroom posture and harsh manner, were all a function of loneliness. If he was long-winded, prone to issuing judgments and soliloquies, it was because he hadn’t anyone to practice any other kind of conversation with. It was easy to sympathize with his lack of social graces. Undoubtedly some people thought the same of her. Hannah wondered if he’d ever courted a woman besides herself—if you could call it a courtship. Who might he be if he had someone to help him see himself?

  “My own feelings on the matter are irrelevant,” he stated. “As thy instructor and a friend to thy father, I regret the current state of affairs. As thy prospective husband I might be able to sway the opinions of the Trustees in the matter of thy position, but in our current situation I see very little I may do to lighten the stain upon the Atheneum caused by thy activities.”

  Hannah’s warm feelings dissolved. Perhaps she’d misheard.

  “You won’t help me because I haven’t consented to marry you?”

  Dr. Hall sighed as if he found it tiresome to explain himself. When he spoke, his voice was emotionless and taut. He might as well have been delivering a lecture on natural philosophy.

  “I am of the opinion that thee ought to have given me thy decision long ago. As thy teacher, I’ve guided thee in every aspect of thy education. I gave thee all the tools thee needed to accomplish thy goals, even the pursuit of a comet. It was I who taught thee to push for the precepts behind the equations, the underlying order of the Heavens. I ensured thee an income at the Atheneum. What more must I do for thee, Hannah Price, in return for thy simple companionship as my wife?”

  She was struck as if the words were physical blows, and Hannah fired back, too appalled to tamp down the volcanic energy of her anger or maintain the pretense of a respectful form of address.

  “Yes, you did a fine job of nurturing my mind and supporting my aspirations, as did my father and Edward both. But above all you taught me to pursue truth. Truth! The highest calling. Did you not drill it into me? And now you’re suggesting that I consent to be your wife in order to secure my position at the Atheneum? Do I strike you as a woman that would make such a vile contract?”

  She’d never felt such fury, or allowed it into words. She’d stood up while speaking, and her fists were balled so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. It felt good, so she squeezed harder.

  “It’s regrettable that thee abandons thy manners and thy plain speech at the first rush of emotion,” he said mildly. “Though it is encouraging to see a feminine fire burning in one who excels at hiding her passions.”

  Hannah backed away, hovering on the edge of the porch step.

  “You don’t see me as a peer at all. For all your talk of equal education, you see my shape, not my mind. At the end of the day I’m but a woman.” The words were bitter in her mouth. Her body was a prison. How unfair that she would be trapped in it until the end of her days.

  “Does a zebra gaze upon its mate and see plaid, my dear? Thee should be grateful for thy blessings, the role thy Creator has reserved for thy Sex.”

  Hannah stared at him, barely hearing the words. Her Sex, indeed. It was the cause of all her suffering.

  “I urge thee to reconsider my offer,” he went on. “If not for thine own sake, then for the sake of those who may be affected by thy decision. Thy father, for instance. He still awaits his certificate of removal, and it will be a challenge for him to continue in his position if he’s in poor standing with the Philadelphia Meeting. Or thy . . . student. Who appears to have a surprising familiarity with the collections of an institution not even open to one of his race. And excellent night vision.”

  “You left the note in my box,” Hannah whispered, the truth seeping in like poison. “Where is my key?” she hissed.

  “I was trying to help thee, Hannah. As I am now. Thee has no further need of the key to our Island’s most cherished institution.” Dr. Hall blinked once, twice, owlish. Was he mocking her with this façade of concern? In the twilight, on his rocking chair, his frailty made a bizarre contrast to the power he wielded.

  “It is not too late to make an acknowledgment,” he added. “That, in combination with an announcement of our engagement, would surely mend any rift between thee and thy neighbors. Think on it.” He folded his arms and began to rock, as if she were a student and he had dismissed her.

  Had she been a sailor, she’d have spit at his feet.

  Instead, she shook her head and measured her words.

  “On the contrary,” Hannah said, each word heavy as a cannonball as it fell. “I shall do my best never to think on it again.”

  She turned her back on him and went back the way she’d come, grateful for the shelter of the encroaching dark.

  . 21 . Double stars

  A

  note on the hall table informed her that Edward and Mary were out looking for her. If you get this before we return, Edward had written in an uncharacteristically serious postscript, underscoring the last line, Please Stay Here.

  Hannah sighed and dropped the note in the tinderbox, wondering what Edward would say about the day’s events. She couldn’t imagine he’d find much to laugh about.

  As she unlaced her boots and went upstairs, she kept seeing
Dr. Hall standing at the head of the classroom. His zest for knowledge; his passion for unraveling the mysteries of the Heavens; his devotion to Truth—all of it had been real, as far as she could ascertain, and equal to her own. How could he have succumbed to such base behavior?

  The answer was obvious but ugly. It was because he desired her, and believed he had the right to acquire and display her like a stuffed pheasant. Hannah splashed cold water on her face, glad for the bracing shock, and pressed a clean cloth to her nose, inhaling the lingering smell of summer air.

  Dazed, she wandered back down into the kitchen and found a plate of sausage and potatoes Mary had left for her. Grateful, she slumped into a chair, suddenly more tired than she’d ever been in her life. It was unbelievable that the first stars had only just winked into visibility.

  She heard the front door open and close as she picked at the cold remains of her dinner, and though she heard Edward calling, she had no strength to answer.

  He burst into the kitchen and stopped short.

  “You’re here! Why didn’t you answer?”

  Hannah shrugged, and he slid onto the bench beside her, propping one elbow on the table and resting his head on his hand, studying her.

  “You need not stare,” she snapped. “I’ve had enough scrutiny for one day.”

  The words stung even as they left her mouth, but Edward didn’t seem offended. Instead, he sighed.

  “I feel partly responsible for what happened today. I ought to have— I mean, had I been here, maybe I could have. I don’t know.” His face was mournful. “I’m not the watchdog type, but I might have saved you the indignity of being clawed at like that by a bunch of righteous prigs.”

  “What could you have done? Ordered me to stop giving lessons to Isaac? And in any case, it doesn’t matter. You weren’t here then and you won’t be here next time, will you? Not that there will be a next time. Since I’m leaving.”

  She dropped her fork on the plate so that it gave a satisfying clatter, then swept up the dish and took it to the sink so she could turn her back to him. Her simmering anger threatened to boil over, but another confrontation would only bring her more pain.

  Edward rose, too, and came over to the sink. His voice had none of its usual swagger. Rather, he seemed like he might cry. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ve thought on it all evening,” he stammered. “And I’ve decided— well, Mary and I—that if you want us to stay, we will.” He swallowed. “I won’t draw this out, but I ask you—as my sister, my twin, my much better half—to consider, before you give your answer, whether staying here is what you truly wish for. Ask what this Island holds for you—for any of us—and whether you might be happy here after all that’s happened.” He paused, sighing deeply. The sound seemed to come from a place in him Hannah didn’t recognize.

  She couldn’t look at him. Instead, she kept her hands in the basin of soapy water, as if hiding them would somehow shield her from the confusion already swirling through her.

  “Don’t answer now,” he said, stepping away. “Think on it. If we are to stay, I’ll have to alert Captain Johnson as soon as possible. But that’s not your concern,” he added. “You decide as your heart dictates.”

  Hannah finished washing and drying her plate and fork, then dragged herself up to the garret and out onto the walk. She didn’t want to observe. Not tonight. What she wanted was to sit under the familiar blanket of stars and be comforted by their steadfast light, orderly and unchanging.

  Edward’s offer was what she’d hoped and wished for all this time. A way to stay on Nantucket that required nothing of her. She could go on with her observations, maybe go back to teaching. Surely the African School would have her. Why didn’t she feel relieved?

  His question hovered in the warm night air like the drone of an insect. Could she be happy here now? Knowing that her neighbors had betrayed her, that their judgment would be as eternal as the stars themselves? The life she had wanted to continue here would be no more. What a new life would be like was an unworkable equation. Not one of us can intuit the future, her father had said months ago, when she had wept over the idea that she would have to leave. How right he had been.

  Especially now, when the Island itself and her life on it were bound inextricably to Isaac. No matter what she chose to do, he would not be here. There would be no more lessons, no more excursions, no more conversations. She would not feel his body beside her again, hear the deep thrum of his voice. Even if she stayed, it wasn’t likely he’d return, for what did this Island hold for him? She leaned heavily on the wooden rail. Perhaps sometimes Isaac would think of her as he took a distance or calculated his ship’s position. At that dismal thought, her heart lurched in her chest. The thought of separating from him was painful enough to contemplate on its own; the idea that he might not feel the same sense of loss made it unbearable.

  Squinting at the sky, she watched the cloud cover, wondering if it would thicken or diminish. She could look for Albireo, in the Swan, if it cleared. She ought to at least set up the telescope. But she remained fixed in place, heavy with uncertainty, and, after a few minutes, stretched out in her usual spot and closed her eyes.

  * Isaac climbed the tree soundlessly as a cat. When he whispered her name, Hannah bolted upright and choked back a shriek. “Shhhhhh.”

  He put a finger to his lips, clinging to the stout branch just below the walk.

  “What are you doing?” Her heart was pounding so hard, she clapped a hand to her chest to try and calm it.

  “Watching you sleep.”

  “There’s a door.” Her legs felt like they were in irons. Standing up was an enormous effort.

  Isaac didn’t answer but shimmied closer to the walk and sprang easily over the railing, dropping lightly to his feet.

  “I did not wish to be seen.”

  He looked around the walk.

  “You’re not observing.”

  Hannah shook her head.

  “I had no heart for it.”

  She sat down at the edge of the walk, and he did the same. They watched black clouds scudding across the dark canvas of the sky. Here and there a star blinked through, and then was gone. It wasn’t worth trying to identify them. They came and went at will, like the men in her life. Dr. Hall and her father, Edward and Isaac, beloved, despised, betrayer, supporter—it mattered not: they had freedom of movement while she had none. They could bask in their desires, where she was shamed by hers.

  “I am not knowing what to say,” Isaac said, glancing at Hannah. She kept her eyes on the sky, resentment twisting her gut.

  “There is nothing to say. You will go, and be a good navigator.”

  “Tell me what you have been observing,” Isaac said. “I wish to remember the sound of your voice.”

  “I’ve been trying to study double stars.”

  Hannah’s voice shook, then steadied. Being so close to him was making it hard to speak.

  “Double stars?”

  “Stars that share a common gravitational force. They move about the Universe together.”

  A gust of hot wind blew loose more of Hannah’s hair, and she slapped at it when it brushed her face, enjoying the sting of her palm. Isaac reached over and moved a lock gently aside. Her forehead burned where he touched it, and she resisted the urge to seize his hand and press it to her cheek, to her neck. Her breath was shallow and quick.

  “But why are they together?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “They are bound by gravity.” Like me. Though she was constrained not by some Heavenly force but by her Sex. Hannah swallowed, tried to regain her thoughts so she could explain.

  “We don’t know,” she whispered. “One star is nearly always brighter than the other. But they change positions relative to the other; sometimes they eclipse each other as they make their orbits. Sometimes we can only see one or the other.”

  In the dark, Isaac leaned close to her ear.

  “But they are always together, moving through t
he Heavens.” “Yes,” she said, or thought she did. Gooseflesh on her arms made the fine hairs stand up like sentinels.

  Isaac bowed his head so that his mouth was beside her ear. “I wish I can speak to you in my language,” he said. He turned his head so that his forehead brushed the soft dent of flesh at her temple. “Speak,” she whispered.

  The music of his voice, then. What was he saying? She could not imagine, did not care. His lips at her ear made her shiver, though her body in its wool dress felt like it was boiling.

  When he kissed her, she disappeared. There was only sensation: his breath, warm, pungent; his lips sweet and wet. The sensation was like falling in a dream. She fell, but there was no landing.

  Instead, she was suspended in the fall itself, the warmth of his hands on her cheeks steadying her. She allowed the seconds to unfurl. But she counted, as she had when she was a child, upon this very roof. Ten, nine, eight . . . Tendrils of heat snaked through her body like fuses. She put her hands on his arms, shocked by the softness of his skin and the strength beneath. Six, five, four . . . His mouth moved to her cheek, her jaw, her neck. She gasped, a shiver buzzing down her spine and landing in her belly.

  Three, two, one. Isaac’s fingers moved to the buttons at her collar, and the pulse of desire hardened into a thud of fear. His mouth found the hollow at her throat, and she gasped with pleasure. But when he unhooked one button, then the next, panic seized her chest. Her legs felt like jelly, and her hands fluttered like wings too weak to beat him away. She did not try to stop him; the pleasure of his mouth on her skin was so great, she could not form words. He unhooked another, then another, exposing her to the top of her slip, and only then did she find her voice, and her strength.

  “Stop.”

  She broke away, inhaled as if she’d been drowning. Air rushed in. She welcomed it. Air was pure; air was the matter of the Universe.