Hand in hand, they went down to the kitchen, tucked at the back of the house, on the street where most Nantucket captains lived. A typical weather-shingled Nantucket house, modest and practical—at least for Orange Street. Two-sided with a central chimney, a parlor and a dining room on either side of a measured staircase. And blue shutters, a color unique to captains, to frame each sixteen-over-sixteen double-hung window.
Patience was in the kitchen, kneeling by the hearth, her dark head bowed in prayer. Daphne stilled, not wanting to interrupt her, shamed that she had not thought to pray for her sister’s welfare. She’d only thought to worry about it. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently breathed a prayer in and out. Let her be well, O mighty Lord. Let Jane be fine. Let this be nothing more than a story we will tell one day and laugh over.
A sneeze burst out of Hitty, startling Patience. She jumped up and whirled around. “Mistress, be there news?”
“Nay, not yet. It might be a long wait. I thought there might be something for the children to eat. Ren, too. He is no doubt famished. And his father will be joining us.”
Patience sent the children to the table with a sweep of her arm. Words were few with Patience, but the children understood her every gesture. She had helped Jane raise them from the moment they were born, was nearly a second mother to them, even more so than Daphne, which at times evoked a tinge of envy in her. That wasn’t fair, Daphne knew. Patience was the one who helped Jane during long nights, wiped their brows when they were fevered, changed their nappies, tucked them into bed.
As Patience bustled around, filling bowls with fresh berries and plates with slices of buttered bread, Daphne watched her, admiring her quiet confidence during this family crisis. She had a certain beauty, Patience did. Skin the color of molasses, bold cheekbones, high forehead, long black hair. A Wampanoag princess, Jane once called her. A princess without anyone to reign over, for there were not many Wampanoags left, not after the Year of the Extraordinary Illness in 1763, a year that swept in and swept out, taking so many native islanders.
Daphne heard a rap on the back door and looked up to see Tristram peering down through the diamond-cut glass. Patience opened the door with her chin dipped, and Tristram brushed past her to reach Daphne, eager for news. “Is Jane revived?”
“Dr. Mitchell is here now. Ren is with them.”
“Ah, good.” Tristram dropped to a chair at the table, heaving an enormous sigh. He slanted a look at Daphne. “Was it her corset, tied too tight again?”
She frowned at him and tipped her head in the children’s direction.
“Is there anything I can do? I want to do something. I’m not good when Jane comes undone. ’Tis all I can do to keep investors from histrionics.”
“Tristram,” Daphne hissed. She glanced at the children, but they were wholly occupied with bread slathered with jam, dripping off its edges, and hadn’t paid attention to Tristram’s blunt remarks.
He sprang to his feet and began pacing around the kitchen, back and forth, nervous and anxious, as if his energy were so great it could not be controlled. Patience scurried out of his way. “There must be something I can do. This isn’t at all like Jane, to collapse under pressure.”
Daphne needed to get Tristram out of the house. His presence was only amplifying anxiety. “I think . . . indeed, I think there is something. Would thee mind fetching Mother? She should be here.” While that was true, Daphne knew Lillian Coffin wasn’t going to be much help. After all, Lillian wasn’t even down at the wharf to welcome her son-in-law into port after a six-year voyage. Nearly all of Nantucket had come to see the Endeavour! But to not inform her mother of Jane’s collapse would offend her deeply, and that would bring serious ramifications. Tristram would be just the one to break the news to Lillian. He could do no wrong in her eyes.
“I’ll go,” he said, looking pleased to be given something to do. “I’ll go now to fetch her.”
He made for the door until Daphne called to him to wait. She hurried and whispered, “Tristram, please don’t tell Mother anything more than the truth. Jane fainted, that’s all. Dr. Mitchell will let us know more after he’s examined Jane.”
He nodded solemnly. “But that is the truth. She’s merely overcome.”
As Patience closed the door behind him, Hitty asked between bites of bread and jam, “Will thee marry Uncle Trist?”
Bright red raspberry jam dripped down her chin. Henry had carefully licked all the oozing raspberry jam off the sides of his bread before he ate it. There were times when Daphne could hardly believe they were related, much less twins. While their coloring was similar, their personalities could not be more different.
Daphne took the corner of a napkin and wiped Hitty’s chin with a smile. “Never thee mind.” Before she could say anything more, she heard the voices of Ren and Dr. Mitchell float down the stairs.
“Patience, stay with the children. I’ll be right back.” Daphne hurried to the foyer but remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching the two men on the landing outside of Jane’s chamber door. They stood facing each other. Ren, though average height, towered over the plump little doctor. Dr. Mitchell’s round face had always reminded Daphne of a soft hot-cross bun, with two black raisins for eyes.
“Thy wife, I’m sorry to say, is in respiratory distress.”
“I can see that for myself,” Ren said, his voice growing louder with every word. “She’s huffing worse than a beached whale. The question is why? And what can be done to help her recover?”
“To tell the truth, I am not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” Ren rocked back on his heels.
“I don’t know what has caused her to go into respiratory distress.” Dr. Mitchell looked down the stairs and noticed Daphne. “Has Jane spoken to thee of any ailments?”
Daphne shook her head. “She’s been . . . as she’s always been.”
“And today?” the doctor said. “Today she was not unwell?”
“She was fine, earlier today. Somewhat fine. Shaky. Nervous. Trembling a little, I noticed. But she was excited to see Ren.”
The doctor scratched his forehead, still focused on Daphne. “Has thee noticed any signs of heart trouble?”
“Heart trouble?” Ren roared. “Are you daft?” The doctor’s head jerked up at the sharp tone in Ren’s voice. “I can tell you why my wife collapsed like a rag doll. I’ve seen it before.” He jabbed a finger at the doctor’s chest. “Laudanum. Poppy sauce. Did you give her any?”
The doctor blinked, then sputtered, “Mayhap once or twice.”
“Once or twice? She’s overdosed on it. I saw the pupils of her eyes before she collapsed on the wharf. Like pinpoints.”
“But . . . but . . . that’s preposterous! ’Tis but a sunny day. Her pupils were contracted.”
“I know what a laudanum addict looks like.”
“Addict? Impossible! No one can be addicted to laudanum.”
“Indeed they can. It’s rampant among sailors.”
“Why, it’s been around for more than two centuries. The drug is wonderfully beneficial. ’Tis called ‘Mother’s Friend’ for quieting colicky infants. I take it myself, every morning. A grain, at most two.” Dr. Mitchell glanced down the stairs. “Some—many—of our own Brothers and Sisters indulge. ’Tis perfectly harmless. Tell him, Daphne. Tell him how common it is.”
“I . . . I . . .” I don’t know what to say, what to think.
The doctor turned back to Ren. “If Jane Macy overindulged, she took more than I ever prescribed.”
“But why? Why did you prescribe it for my wife in the first place?”
“Same reason as most women on Nantucket require it. For female hysteria. Laudanum gave her spirits a lift.”
Ren pulled a silver flask out of his pocket. “So this is it? I found it in her chamber. It has an M engraved on it. ’Tis not yours?”
“I . . . I don’t know that it is. I don’t know that it isn’t.”
Ren opened it and sniffed. “I can s
mell the bitter scent of laudanum in this flask.”
“I only give my patients powdered opium. The price has grown so dear in Boston that it’s easier to transport. I suggest they mix it with wine to mask the taste.” Dr. Mitchell took the flask from Ren and took a whiff. “That is not wine in the elixir.” He screwed the lid back on. “It’s some kind of tainted tincture.”
“Tainted?” Ren frowned. “As in, poison?”
“Ethanol, most likely. Not a poison, unless the amount mixed in was of a lethal dose.”
“Lethal?” Ren nearly choked on the word.
Daphne felt her heart start to race. Lethal? How could this be? Her mind started spinning, her legs felt wobbly, and she grabbed on to the newel post for support. Lethal? How could this be happening to her sister?
“The next few days will be critical,” Dr. Mitchell said, all business. “Jane is young. She has much to live for. Mayhap she will have a chance to survive this crisis.”
“Survive?” Ren’s face blanched. “Has a chance? Do you mean to say she might die? She is but a lass of six-and-twenty!”
Dr. Mitchell started down the narrow stairwell. “Continue to feed her the sugared water. I’ll return later in the day to check on her. Laura Swain is having her baby. A breech. I must return to her at once. Thee can reach me at the Swains’ if anything changes.”
“Is there not . . . ?” Ren put a hand to his head. “There must be something you can do for her! Some medicine that can counteract the effects of this . . . tainted tincture?”
Dr. Mitchell stopped on a stair and turned to answer Ren, his voice surprisingly tender. “Her age will be to her benefit in this struggle. But if there is sign of intestinal bleeding . . . ’twill be too late. The end will be near.”
Ren swallowed, his face blanched, his hand stopped halfway down his shortly clipped hair.
“I’ll see myself out.”
As the doctor passed by Daphne, he patted her shoulder in a sympathetic way that caused her eyes to blur with a wash of tears. She was gripped by a sick feeling of dread. Dear God, she thought. Dear God, how can this be? More tears crowded her eyes.
An ominous silence filled the stairwell as the heavy front door shut behind the doctor. It felt as if hope had left with him.
Ren stared at Daphne, a haunted look on his face. “Daphne, did you know of this . . . this . . . laudanum that Jane took?”
She averted her eyes from Ren, wiping them as she looked down at the toes of her kid slippers peeking out from under her silk dress. “I knew of the powdered medicine that Dr. Mitchell prescribed, and she took it but rarely.”
“Only rarely?” He walked down the stairwell, stopping halfway. “Why at all? What has been going on in my absence?”
She lifted her head. “What does thee mean?”
“For Jane to indulge in poppy sauce . . . while caring for two small children . . . that doesn’t sound like the woman I married. Jane is a woman of strength. Of substance. Of independent means. I would never have expected Jane to become a Nantucket hen . . .”
A Nantucket hen? That was an insulting name given to sailors’ wives who were considered dotty after spending so much of life alone. Daphne glared at him, anger replacing anguish. “How dare thee sound so roiled!” She could hear the rising hysteria in her voice, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. “And what gives thee the right to sound off like an indignant husband? After thee’s been away six long years!”
He peered into her face. “Jane knew what it meant to be a whalemaster’s wife. Other women endure their lot. So tell me why is . . .” he lifted a hand toward the bedroom door. “Why is she this way? Who is to blame?”
To blame? How dare he! “I don’t know! She’s been under stress . . .”
“Tell me why! What has caused such stress?”
Daphne took such a deep breath that the points of her whalebone stays poked into her sides. How she hated corsets! “Why? Why? Oh, what men do not know about women!” He winced at her bluntness but she was too intent to notice; her hands curled with annoyance, her voice rose in frustration. “She bore thee twin babies, one of whom was pindling. She has been raising them alone. And then there is her financial situation.”
Ren’s eyes widened in shock. “What do you mean? What financial situation?”
Daphne came back to herself with a start. “Thee should speak to Tristram.”
“What are you not telling me? What should I know?”
“Thee should know that thy wife did all she could to manage and keep this house, to provide for thy children, while thee . . . thee was traipsing around the world with nary a care!”
“Nary a care!” Ren clapped his palms against his temples. “Nary a care! I was trying to fill the hold as quickly as possible and return to my wife.”
“Ren,” she said, her voice cracking, “when Tristram returns to the house, go to him with thy questions.”
He glared at her. “I will. I will do just that. I will get to the bottom of this. I will find out who is to blame for the condition my wife is in.”
“Son.” A calm deep voice filled the stairwell. Daphne turned to see Jeremiah Macy by the front door. Had he been there this whole time? She hadn’t even noticed. “Son, go sit by your wife and say a prayer for her.”
Ren dropped his chin to his chest and went into Jane’s chamber, quietly closing the door behind him.
Daphne brushed the tears from her face and put out her hand to welcome Jane’s father-in-law. “Jeremiah, this is not the homecoming Jane had planned for thee and Ren.” She sighed. “Please stay. I can get thee refreshments. Thee must be famished.”
He shook his head. “I’m not much good at waiting around,” he said. “I’ll be down at the Seven Seas Tavern if you need me. Assuming it’s still there?”
“It is.”
He appraised her for a long moment. “Land sakes, Daphne Coffin. You’ve gone and gotten tall.”
It perplexed her that so many felt the need to point that fact out to her.
He gave her a pat on her shoulder. “All in all, you’ve grown into a right fetching young woman. I would not have predicted such a thing, back in ’15 when the Endeavour sailed off.”
There was a compliment in there somewhere, though Daphne was too preoccupied with concern for Jane to put much thought to Jeremiah, other than annoyance. As she closed the door behind him, she pondered why men felt the need to talk or move restlessly during a crisis, both of which were not at all helpful.
As Daphne swung open the kitchen door and entered the room, she had to blink once, then twice. There at the kitchen table sat a Negro man, being served a cup of tea by Patience.
Patience took Hitty and Henry outside so that Daphne could speak to the man in the kitchen. She studied the man’s skin: he wasn’t as dark as most African sailors she’d seen. She wondered if he was Azorean. Or Ethiopian? He reminded her of a cup of coffee, stirred with rich cream.
The sailor had jumped to his feet as she entered the room, and now was studying her too. Perhaps he had not seen many Quaker women before. He had round and clear dark eyes and held her gaze with confidence, so unlike the former slaves living in a corner of the island called New Guinea, who ducked their chins in deference when they crossed paths with Nantucket whites.
He eyed her as a curiosity, as surprised by her appearance as she was of his. It reminded Daphne of the way her own mother would gaze at her when she didn’t think she knew she was being observed. Her mother often seemed completely baffled by Daphne’s height and looks, as if she wondered where she’d come from.
“Ma’am, I am here to speak to Captain Macy. He asked me to supervise the unloading of the Endeavour.”
The sailor’s voice was gentle and well-spoken, with crisp enunciation of consonants. She did not detect an accent, though she assumed he had been born in the south. A former slave, perhaps? Now a freeman?
“Captain Macy asked me to bring him a report,” he prompted.
“I see.” And yet she didn’t. S
he did not believe him. It was unlikely he could read or write; surely Ren would not have a low-ranking seaman supervise such precious cargo. Yet why would the Negro lie? There was no reason to doubt him, aside from the color of his skin. A tinge of shame for her suspicion rippled through her.
“Captain Macy is upstairs with his wife. May I take him a message for thee?”
“Thank you, ma’am, no. I must deliver this message myself.”
“Could thee return tomorrow?”
“No, ma’am. I will wait. I will wait outside until the captain is available to me.” He nodded to her and went out the back door.
She had a feeling this curious black sailor would wait for Captain Reynolds Macy as long as it would take.
When an hour had passed and Ren had not come down, Daphne went upstairs to check on her sister. The chamber door was slightly ajar. Jane lay in utter stillness. If it weren’t for a sudden shuddering breath, Daphne would have thought her dead. A sigh of relief escaped her throat and Ren glanced up at the sound.
He shook his head to her questioning look. “There is no change.”
She crossed the room to give a cup of hot tea to Ren. He sat in a chair next to Jane’s bed and held the delicate porcelain teacup in his large rough hands, such an odd combination that it almost elicited a smile from Daphne. Almost. She was still angry with him for how brusquely he had spoken to Dr. Mitchell, and then to her. Yet she also had empathy for the poor man. How much had changed in a few short hours.
She studied his face as he blew on the steaming tea. Ren’s was a handsome face, with its sharp, shapely nose and high cheekbones, the wide mouth that held a certain wild charm. He was a lithe man of medium height, sun-tinted skin, and dark eyebrows that framed his piercing brown eyes. Eyes that now had sun creases fanning at their edge. Her eyes followed the trimmed beard that framed his strong jaw. He looked older than she remembered him—how old was he now? Twenty-nine? Nay, thirty-one.
When he looked up, the face he turned to her was empty but for sorrow that darkened his eyes. “I must ask your forgiveness. I had no call to speak to you the way I did.”
Minding the Light Page 3
