by Amy Brill
“This is very nice,” she said, glancing up but not wanting to embarrass him with questions. It was the kind of tailored garment that cost a small fortune. Even though he was technically a Philadelphian now, she was shocked that he’d spent the money on it.
“Father’s been contracted by the United States Mint,” Edward said, closing the logbook in front of him. “In his position he’s expected to appear—what’s the word Lucinda used?” He glanced at Nathaniel.
“Like a member of modern society,” Nathaniel muttered. “Are you and Lucinda not members of the Philadelphia Meeting?” “Of course we are,” he said, patting her on the hand. “And she looks
forward to finally meeting thee.” Hannah nodded, still focused on the combination of his suit’s fine fabric and cut, his ruddy aspect and combed hair. Together, they lent him the look of—what? Hannah squinted and cocked her head, trying to figure out what he looked like, exactly, and could only come up with banker—which was exactly right.
“In any case, we’ve other business to discuss.” He pushed back his chair farther so that they sat in a semi-circle.
“We do? I’ve only just gotten off the boat. Have you lined up work for me already?”
He rewarded her with a smile, and a warm current of comfort swept through her.
“Now that I’ve secured the contract thy brother mentioned, I’m in a position to do something we dreamed of for many years. I’ve met with Dr. Bache, in Washington, and of course spoken with William Bond and Dr. Hall as well. All are in support of a new observatory. Small, but fully outfitted and able to contribute to all the local and national astronomical efforts.”
“Run by?”
“Run by thee. I’m certain you’ll be able to find work enough to maintain thyself on the Island now, even if thee continues to choose . . .” He paused, fishing for a word. Hannah couldn’t intuit what he was getting at. He cleared his throat. “Even if thee doesn’t marry. And of course I’ll assist as the project gets under way. And thy brother will help, for whatever span of time he decides to grace us.”
Hannah was so shocked by the announcement that her thoughts puddled together all at once.
“You’ll be the sole funder? That’s terribly expensive,” was what she managed to say.
“Always practical Hannah,” Edward said, rolling his eyes and kicking her boot under the desk as if they were ten years old. She tried to kick him back but missed.
“I’m considering various funding options. Dr. Hall has some interest in investing, and there’s a good chance a subscription would be fruitful. There’s a fair amount of labor involved, and Edward has been quite helpful. But Philadelphia is my primary residence now.”
He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, and she remembered the garret as an empty shell, stripped of their presence down to its planks and beams. Nathaniel sighed and took off his spectacles, then bowed his head for a moment, rubbing his temples, and in that hunched position he looked elderly, and fragile. Hannah felt her throat tighten, a complex array of emotions vibrating at once.
The chance to have an observatory of their own, a place to discover and dream, had been their shared vision as long as she could remember. She imagined a small transit house atop the Bank, living in this house on her own, with the financial means to ignore marriage entirely. She could spend her days ciphering and her nights observing for as long as she wished; perhaps the offer to contribute to the Coast Survey would resurface. It would be the most orderly of lives. It made perfect sense.
But a speck of doubt floated by, light as a puff of pollen. One must not forsake feeling for fact, Mary Somerville had said. Keep your mind open to possibility! Now it sounded like a warning. Nathaniel and Edward were staring at her, expectant.
“That’s an exceedingly generous offer,” Hannah said, choosing her words with care. “It’s a bit overwhelming. I hardly know what to say.”
Nathaniel blinked at her like a surprised owl.
“I rather thought thee would be more excited. I can understand thy brother’s limited enthusiasm, but is this not what we hoped for?”
Edward looked as shocked as Nathaniel, but for once he remained mute, and she was grateful for the chance to gather her thoughts.
“It’s true that Edward and I could not be more dissimilar in our inclinations and aptitudes,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “These are our natures. I know thee has been disappointed by our choices in the past: Edward for shipping with the Regiment, rather than taking a profession, and myself for failing to marry some respectable individual, be it Dr. Hall or George Bond.” She hoped her gentle tone would blunt the effect of what she was about to say.
“But in following the dictates of our own hearts and intellects, I believe we have chosen wisely. Had Edward gone on to University, he would have been miserable. And had I entered into a contract with a man I didn’t love, I would be the same—and in all likelihood I would never have found my comet and gotten the opportunity to pursue my observations. At this exact moment, I’m not . . . I’m not certain of my course.”
Nathaniel didn’t answer for several long seconds, but Hannah felt a swell of relief. Speaking her mind felt like laying down a tremendous burden. The salons of Europe, her audience with Mary Somerville, her visits to the great observatories—everywhere she had gone, people had asked for her thoughts and ideas; she’d witnessed passionate, emotional debates about everything from universal suffrage to the mathematical likelihood of a finite Universe.
“Thy travels have certainly impacted thee,” Nathaniel finally said. “Perhaps after thee has rested, and given the notion more consideration, thee will conclude that this plan is indeed suited to thy nature and circumstances.”
Hannah bit her lip. She had wounded him; it was not what she’d meant to do. But before she could say anything else, Nathaniel sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk.
“In any case, we shan’t resolve the future tonight. Nor the past.” He sat up straighter and clutched both arms of the chair in order to rise to his feet. Edward’s hand snaked out to help, and Hannah’s was still there, but Nathaniel swatted them both away.
“I shan’t topple,” he said. “But I will retire. I’m sure there’s much catching up the two of thee have yet to do.”
Hannah rose to let him by, and as his footfalls echoed away, she slumped into the chair he’d just vacated, warm from his body, and propped her boot on the stool. Edward blew out a huge sigh.
“My goodness, Hannah. I should call the Mirror: ‘Great Lady Astronomer Goes to Continent, Returns with Valise, Voice.’ ” He shook his head but his voice was full of admiration. “I’ve never heard you put your feelings into words. Especially in defense of yours truly. I’m touched. Really.”
Hannah shrugged, but her cheeks warmed.
“Heartless Hannah no more, I suppose,” she muttered, wanting to change the subject before she accidentally revealed the true source of her transformation.
Her twin stared at her, waiting, then crossed his arms.
“I’m as perplexed as Father at the moment, though I’ll be delighted if you do decline the offer and decide to move away.”
“That’s charitable.” Cross, Hannah pushed the stool away with her boot, then sat up and folded her arms to match his. “I’ve only just arrived. Why must I decide today what I want to do?”
“You need not. But I’m sure that you of all people can see a hot iron when it’s sitting in front of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hannah!” Edward leaned forward as if she was missing a fundamental point. “You’re famous!”
“So what?” she shot back.
“Well, why would you want to stay here when you could go anywhere on Earth?”
She felt pinned in place by his intense stare, but it grounded her. This was the garret of her youth. Home. Her senses sharpened: old wood and new, the peculiar dust of this room, crumbling parchment and spiderweb and ink. Leather from
the books; a hint of linseed oil. She glanced at the desk; someone had recently polished it. Its dull gleam beckoned. Hannah ran a loving finger across it.
“I honestly don’t know if I want to stay or not.” Hannah examined the ragged edges of her fingernails. “Though I’d hesitate to get involved with anything Dr. Hall had a hand in. At least if I remain I’ll be supported by my own industry, regardless of your comings and goings. Or that of any other man.”
“True enough. There’s not a man on this Island right now who won’t be away in a minute’s time, bound for an eastern city or a western farm. But unless you wish to remain shackled to an empty bed for the rest of your days, consider whether you’re willing to end up with a fellow with half your intellect, who’ll expect you to follow him to some factory town or worse. You might have financial independence here, and every instrument at your disposal, but the rest of your life will be boxed in by the boundaries of this place, which you know better than anyone. And as you might have noticed, they now contain thousands of idlers in the summer and a ghost town in the winter.”
“Are we talking about my prospects again? Is that what this is about?” A vision popped into her head like a match struck in the dark: a warm spring day, the windows of the house thrown open to the breeze, green shoots rising in the garden. She would be working; a distant knock would bring her down the steps as it had two years earlier, and she would throw open the door to find Isaac Martin waiting. This time she would waste no time with formality; this time she would go toward him as if propelled by gravity itself. Lost in her imagining, Hannah heard Edward droning on as if through a veil.
“I’m only suggesting that the Island has changed—is changing. And you’ve changed, too. I can see it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t want you to stay here out of some misguided notion of loyalty, to this Island or to our father. Or because you’re waiting for something. Or someone.”
Hannah’s face must have revealed her sudden sense of panic that Edward had read her mind, because he held up his hands and shook his head.
“I didn’t mean to— I’m not saying you have to marry. Just that I don’t want you to spend your life in this tiny corner of the world.” He reached for her hand and she allowed him to take it, but she pressed her cheek to her shoulder to hide her face.
“I don’t care about anything that happened here while I was aboard the Regiment. You know that. I trust your judgment to be as solid as the Heavens. But I do think there’s a bigger role for you than even a Nantucket observatory could provide.”
There was a gentle tapping, and then Mary came into the room. She was clutching a bundle of papers, wrapped in a ribbon. Hannah sat up.
“Are those for me?” Hannah asked. Her skin tingled into gooseflesh.
“Oh. Yes. They’re yours.” Mary handed them off and glanced at Edward. He rose, dropping Hannah’s hand.
“We’ll leave you to them,” he said gently. “We can speak more later.”
Hannah nodded, staring at the sheaf of correspondence in her hand. She barely heard the door to the garret click shut. What she wanted to do was leaf through the whole bundle immediately, looking for a letter from Isaac. But she forced herself to begin at the top, stretching out her wait. Her hopes would be fulfilled, or dashed. He would have written—or not—and then she would have to face the clear truth of the situation. She had waited this long; she could wait a few minutes more.
The first letter was from Admiral Bache himself, inviting her to join an astronomical expedition to Northern Maine in a month’s time; she quickened at the opportunity, until she got to the bottom and saw that her father had been invited, too. Was she in need of a chaperone? she wondered, and then winced at her own naïveté. It was political, of course. Not personal. She sighed and looked around for her calendar and journal before remembering that they were all downstairs.
The stack of letters nestled in her lap. She plucked the next one from the top: it was postmarked Cambridge and turned out to be a note from George about his latest experiment: photographing the rings of Neptune. I could use your eye (not to mention your maths) here in Cambridge, he wrote. I can’t offer you a paid position (though you know I would if I could), but if you’re inclined to visit, I can guarantee you credit and authorship on anything we publish . . . Hannah folded it up after scanning the rest and put it with Dr. Bache’s letter to be answered. After that came three requests for articles or appearances and two dozen fan letters from individuals she had no acquaintance with, praising her accomplishments and wishing her, in one young girl’s curling hand, “more extraordinary luck in de-mystifying the Heavens.”
The stack was half-gone. Hannah seized the rest in her hands and was surprised to see, right at the top, her own name, in her own hand. She flipped the letter over: Isaac Martin, via the Pearl, Pacific Grounds.
Whereabouts unknown, someone had written across the top in red ink. It had been returned, then; Hannah squinted at it but couldn’t remember when she’d penned it. She’d have to read it to find out. She put it aside and turned to the next one, finding the same inscription across her own handwriting, and then another, and another. Seven of her letters to Isaac in total, all posted from Nantucket before she’d gone overseas. All of them bearing the same angry red scrawl.
Whereabouts unknown.
She froze, clutching the sheaf of parchment, a record of her desire in black ink. Why hadn’t her letters reached Isaac? Fear coursed through her like blood, and she had to order herself to calm down and think clearly.
It wasn’t possible that the Pearl had gone down. When a Nantucket ship foundered, it was in the newspapers. People spoke of it; she would have known. At least a quarter of the crew was Nantucket-born. And none of the letters she’d written from overseas were in the pile. Her hand shaking, she placed the bundle down on the desk. No wonder he hadn’t written: he’d not received her letters. They explained Edward’s comments, too. Hannah felt her cheeks burning; he’d obviously seen these pile up in the mail slot, and knew that she’d been writing to someone who had simply disappeared.
There was only one letter left. Her heart hammering, Hannah reached for it, closing her eyes before flipping it over. What do you wish for? she heard herself wondering, long ago in the Atheneum. She answered without hesitation now, clutching the letter, seeing Isaac the way he had once convinced her to see her comet. As if she could conjure him. Speak to me, she thought.
She turned over the clean white square. Her heart thudded into her belly, heavy as an anchor.
Miss Hannah Gardner Price was neatly inscribed upon the front. It was not Isaac’s handwriting. The return address was in St. Lawrence Valley, New York. Hannah tried to recall if she knew anyone there—or where it was, exactly—but couldn’t come up with anything. She broke the seal, hardly caring about the contents.
5 June, 1847.
Ithaca, New York.
Dear Miss Price, I write on the recommendation of our mutual acquaintances, William and George Bond. As the Dean of Groton College, an institution of higher learning for women, located in Tompkins County in the great state of New York, it is my honor to offer you the position of Instructor in the Department of Astronomy we are in the process of establishing. Your duties would consist of assisting us with the selection and installation of instruments in our new Observatory; leading the Department in matters of Curriculum; and of course teaching our women what they need to know in order to take their place beside you in the new order of our country’s development, as scientists and astronomers . . .
Hannah dropped the letter on the desk and gripped the edge with both hands, feeling weak. She would have her contribution, then. Her path could not be clearer if it were blazed across a dark sky: shaping the minds and sharpening the intellect of a whole generation of women— that would be her path.
With that thought, the warmth of a private sun seemed to be shining down on her, sensible, magnificent. She half expected the luminous sensation to resolve into religious feeling.
She felt grateful; she felt humble; she felt excited and nervous and incredulous. Was this the hand of God? She wasn’t sure. The hand she felt in the crafting of everything leading up to this moment was her own.
Slowly, she rose to her feet. The Dollond gleamed dully in the wavering light of the candle, and Hannah went to it, laying a hand and then her forehead on the cool brass of the tube, as if it were a horse that had safely forded her across a river. Thank you, she thought. She rested there for another moment before she remembered that the letter from Groton had been the last. A cold current of sorrow cut through her relief like an icy wind. Isaac had not written. It was time to abandon hope of seeing him again; surely there was no mistaking the meaning of such a long, unbroken silence.
. 32 . Independence day
Are you coming?”
“I am.” Hannah wiped her brow with her elbow and snapped the last of the clean aprons in the humid July twilight before clipping it to the line, then ran upstairs to change into something cooler than the dark work dress she’d thrown on that morning. She had two choices: an old brown linen or a lightweight silk the color of new-churned butter that she’d bought in Italy but had never worn. She’d probably have little use for it in Groton; she might as well enjoy it now.
“They won’t begin the fireworks till dark,” she said to Mary as she came downstairs. Her sister-in-law waited with Moses on her hip, jiggling him so that he bobbed like an apple in a tub. She looked Hannah up and down, her mouth a perfect rosebud O.
“I’ve never worn it before,” Hannah said, smoothing the skirt. “Is it ridiculous?” It was silly to be nervous about what anyone thought of her attire, but she still felt her cheeks flush. It was impossible to discard one’s old self entirely, Hannah thought, waiting for Mary’s judgment.
“It’s beautiful,” Mary said, reaching out and squeezing Hannah’s hand. “You look lit from inside.” The baby gummed at Mary’s neck and she giggled, nuzzling into him. Hannah felt a now-familiar pang: a twinge of desire laced with a vaguely lurid curiosity. She wasn’t sure whether it was her own intermittent longing that was by turns enticing and embarrassing, or whether it was motherhood itself that affected her, its viscous, redolent sensuality. Hannah had glimpsed Mary in the tub with the baby the evening before. He’d bobbed up and down on his back, resting on his mother’s swollen breasts and soft belly. Mary’s face had been beatific, like a Catholic painting of a saint. Hannah had withdrawn into the shadows behind the door but had watched for a moment before she forced herself to look away.
