“There is no need to apologize.”
“Ah, but there is. Jane is your sister. You are as distraught as I.”
She swallowed around an ache in her throat that felt strangely like a lump of tears. “Apology accepted.” She sat in the chair on the other side of Jane’s bed. “I can ask Patience to bring thee something to eat.”
He looked up at her over the brim of the teacup. “Patience?”
“Jane’s maidservant. A Wampanoag.” She paused. He should remember her. She’d been at her mother’s house for as long as Daphne could recall. “Patience is a fine servant for Jane. A wonderful help with the children.”
Ren set the teacup down on the nightstand. “I don’t doubt it. I’m just . . . bewildered by all the changes.” He leaned back in the chair. “I did not know I had become a father.”
She had been stroking Jane’s arm, but stopped at this news. “Surely thee jests.”
“Nay. I had no idea.”
“But thee must have received Jane’s letters.”
“I received two, but neither mentioned that she had given birth to twin children.”
“I know she wrote to thee regularly. Whenever a ship left port, she would send a letter to thee. Each time!” She kept on talking, as if by saying enough, the letters would suddenly appear.
But Daphne knew better. There were all kinds of reasons why letters failed to reach their destination; it was more of a miracle when one reached its intended. Even then, tidings would be stale by a year, often longer. It was more reliable for ships gammed on the open sea to send letters to Nantucket, as the port was everyone’s final destination. Receiving mail from Nantucket, intended for the crew of a particular ship, was a game of chance with poor odds.
“We didn’t come across a Nantucket vessel for well over two years. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d have a wife waiting for me on the docks this morning as the Endeavour sailed into port. But there she was, looking just like the sweet lass I’d said goodbye to so soon after we’d wed.” He turned to look at Jane, lying so still on the bed. “And then . . . this happened.” He sipped on his tea, and she knew it was to hide the tears that glistened in his eyes. “Which one was pindling?”
“The twins? Henry. He was born small, quite a bit tinier than Hitty. Jane nursed him ’round the clock those first few months. Even as a toddler, everything came slower for Henry than it did for Hitty. Everything but illness. If Hitty caught a cold, Henry would catch pneumonia. ’Tis better now. They are more on an even keel.”
He nodded, interested, still sipping his tea. He set the cup on the nightstand. “Do you think Jane can hear us?”
“I don’t know. ’Tis a question for Dr. Mitchell.” She hoped so, though. She wanted Jane to know she was surrounded by those who loved her. How hopeful they were to have her return to them. “There’s a sailor downstairs who’s been patiently waiting to speak to thee. He says thee wanted him to report on the unloading of cargo for the Endeavour.” She leaned forward and whispered, “He is a Negro.”
“Aye. Abraham. My second mate.”
Daphne’s mouth opened. “He is thy second mate?”
“Indeed. Abraham is the most praiseworthy man I know. Best hand I ever hired. I picked him up in the Barbados. I lost three hands while there—three Swain cousins. I had to scupper them. They are meant to be landlubbers.”
Daphne knew those Swain boys to be a lazy lot. They would never work again on a whaling ship. There was no worse insult to bestow on a man than to dismiss him as a landlubber. “Then, this Abraham, he can read? And keep accounts?”
“Not only can he read and do sums, he has a knack for navigation. He can captain a ship as well as me. I have a thought to make him my first mate on the next voyage.”
A dark-skinned man . . . first mate? Daphne had never heard of such a thing. She wondered if Ren might have trouble finding crew to sign on. They were not accustomed to taking orders from a dark-skinned man.
As if he read her mind, he murmured, “On a ship, the crew is color-blind if the captain says so.”
She wondered.
“I’d ask you not to mention my plans to promote Abraham to Tristram.” He rose to his feet. “If you’ll stay with Jane, I’ll go down to speak to Abraham.”
“Of course. And I won’t speak a word of thy plans, not to Tristram nor to anyone else. Tristram is fetching Mother.”
Ren nodded. “Lillian. How does she fare?”
“She is the same as she has always been.”
“And thy father? He is well?”
Ren did not know? But of course he didn’t. How could he? “Father passed away. Four years ago now.”
Ren dropped his chin to his chest. “I am sorry to hear that. I know how Jane adored him.” He glanced at Jane. “She had to endure so much, all alone.”
“Yes, and yet, she wasn’t alone. Nantucket women, they rally together. Jane is much beloved. Especially so after she started the Cent School for some local children.”
“A Cent School? What is that?”
“’Tis a day school for little ones. It costs but a penny a day to attend.”
A confused look filled his eyes. “Why in the world would she do such a thing?”
Daphne hesitated. There was so much Ren did not understand. “So mothers can work and know their children are well cared for. The women whose husbands are at sea.” Which was most everyone, for all industries on Nantucket involved the sea.
A commotion downstairs meant the arrival of Lillian Coffin. Ren flinched at the sound of his mother-in-law’s voice, floating up the stairwell. Daphne noticed.
“I’ll greet Lillian, then see to Abraham.” Before Ren left Jane’s bedside, he touched the corner of her mouth with his lips. He glanced up at Daphne with a startled look. “They are so cold, her lips. Like ice.”
Daphne sat in the chair next to Jane’s bed. She picked up Jane’s hand—so cold, and her fingernails, they seemed to have a tinge of blue. She rubbed her sister’s hands, hoping to warm them up, and then tucked them under the covers. She wished there was something she could do, other than sit here. Her eyes slid to the bedside table, and she opened the drawer to take out Great Mary’s journal.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
12 May 1662
Eleven-year-old Jethro has been a friend to me. This morning, I went out to fill the water bucket in the well and discovered he had already done it for me. I thanked him and he blushed. He is a dear boy. I met Nathaniel in Salisbury when he was a grown man, nearly twenty, and could not have imagined him as a boy. He was so tall, distant and mature to me, and I was but a child still, only ten years old.
But when I am with Jethro, I feel as if I am peeking through a window into the past, to get an idea of my husband as a boy. Shy, sweet, thoughtful. And like Nathaniel, Jethro cannot read. He simply cannot. I have tried to teach both of them, and it is a futile endeavour.
It is not a lack of intelligence, as both of them are quite capable and insightful and overly blessed with common sense—which might be the most valuable form of intelligence any one could have. I think their inability to grasp the written word has something to do with the way their mind is shaped. They do not seem to be able to remember letters. When they do try to write, letters come out backward or upside down. I have come to believe that is why the X is the preferred signature for those who are illiterate. Backwards or forwards or upside down, it is the same.
How difficult it must be to not have the ability to read or write. I take such comfort and solace in words. I would feel quite excluded from the world if I could not partake in language.
I said as much to Esther and she suggested that I might try it sometime.
13 May 1662
Nathaniel believes that Esther dislikes me so intensely because Jethro is equally devoted to me. “You’ve taken the spot in his life,” he said, “that Esther wants to have.”
Mayhap he is right, as he often is. Still, I think there might be more to Esther’s unreasonable hostility. Thoug
h I accept it as a silly thought, I have wondered if Esther has been so cold to me because she is envious of my role at the store. ’Tis not common for a woman on this island to work outside the home, especially to interact with so many different kinds of people. Wampanoags come in to trade plowing for food, fishermen stop by from the Cape to pick up supplies. I listen, I ask questions, and I learn. There are so many interesting people in this world, each one with a story to tell.
As often as I am overcome with awe by a colorful sunrise or sunset, or when I listen to the eternal sound of waves cresting onto the shore, I think I am most filled with wonder of God when I observe the variety of people on this earth. It brings to mind a Bible proverb: “The rich and poor meet together; the Lord is the maker of them all.”
18 May 1662
I had what I thought was a wonderful idea, a test of my theory. I asked Esther if she might like to help out in the store with me, now and then, during times when her mother didn’t need her at home.
She gave me a flat no.
3
Captain Reynolds Macy gathered every ounce of stoic courage he could muster as he prepared to meet his wife’s mother. Fortifying thoughts ran through his mind: I have stood in the face of gales that threatened to topple m’ ship. I have speared mighty leviathans. Surely, I can face Lillian Swain Coffin.
But as he closed the door to Jane’s chamber, his courage faltered. His mother-in-law, although she had a striking elegance even he could not deny admiring, was a force unlike anything in nature. Her skin was markedly white, her eyes nearly black, her hair a flaxen blonde. She carried herself with an unmistakable patrician manner, amiable to those she considered peers, haughty toward inferiors. While it was true that many folk in Nantucket had long memories, unforgiving natures, and a deep suspicion of newcomers, Lillian nursed grudges like no one else. She was the reason he had bought the house on Orange Street for Jane, though he could scarcely afford it. Besides security, he thought it would provide well-deserved status for Jane as a whalemaster’s wife, and hoped it would appease Lillian.
He had not realized Jane would have had to face so much alone, though. To bear his children, all alone. To face her beloved father’s death, alone. He shook inside with fear and shame, and a wonder at himself. How could I have expected so much of my bride? How could I have given her so little in return?
He squared his shoulders, for he knew Lillian would find any apparent weak spot and drive a wedge into it. At the top of the stairs, he saw his cousin Tristram in the foyer, standing beside Lillian in her starched gray dress, white lace–caped shoulders, and stiff black bonnet. Closing the front door behind them was the native maidservant, a woman he vaguely recalled—what had Daphne called her? Patience. Ahhh . . . A timely reminder.
“Where is she? Where is Jane?”
A shiver went down his spine. Lillian’s voice was not shrill, but even still, it had always had that effect on him, like biting down on a piece of tin.
When Patience didn’t answer, Lillian looked up the stairwell and spotted Ren. She lifted a hand and pointed a finger at him, a confirmation to Ren that this would be a difficult reunion. There was no tie of blood or love to bind them, only a connection to Jane. “Thee! Thee brought this on! I told Jane, she never should have married thee! It would ruin her. I told her. Thee convinced her to elope and then thee ran off to sea! Thee has broken her spirit.”
Blame. Accusation. Condemnation. Woven together like three strands of rope. He expected as much from her, but guilt sent color rushing hot to his face. He cleared his throat and tried for a smile as he went down the stairs. “Hello, Lillian. If you can compose yourself to be calm and quiet, you may be escorted up to see Jane.”
“Escorted! To see my own daughter? I will not be told what to do.” She held up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip and started to climb the stairs.
Ren blocked her path. “I realize this is upsetting news. But Jane does not need to be distressed. She needs rest to recuperate.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he had made an error in revealing too much.
Lillian froze. “Rest to recuperate?” She looked down at Tristram. “Thee said her corset was too tight and she had fainted!”
Tristram’s mouth tightened a little at the corners. “Apparently, I did not have all the facts.”
“What has happened to Jane?”
Ren hesitated. “She’s had a . . . nervous collapse.”
A gasp escaped Lillian’s lips and she swayed. Ren caught her before she toppled down the stairs. “William. He . . . he died of such a collapse.”
“This is nothing like William’s circumstances, Lillian,” Tristram said. To Ren, he mouthed, “He died in the arms of another woman.”
Ren stared at his cousin. Tristram lifted his eyebrows in such a way that spoke the truth.
Ren was shocked that Jane’s father was no longer, but not by those details. It was a poorly kept secret on Nantucket Island, that of William Starbuck Coffin’s transgressions. While Friends did not approve, most everyone pitied the man for his unfortunate choice of a wife.
Lillian had always confronted rumors of her husband’s mistress by refusing to acknowledge them. It was the second reason she objected to Jane’s marriage to Ren. She was convinced that all seamen had the same philandering tendencies. Certainly there were powerful temptations for seamen in exotic ports-o-call, where a man could find a woman and never worry he would see her again. But Ren fought those temptations and did not leave the ship when in port, for he loved his wife and had made a promise to her, to forsake all others.
But Lillian’s primary objection to Reynolds Macy was that he was not a member of the Society of Friends held in good standing. Nor did he care to be.
Lillian’s hands still gripped the banister. She looked up to find Ren watching her, and she lifted a hand to her forehead. “I fear a spell is on its way. I must return home at once.” She recovered herself, smoothing out her skirts, and darted back down the stairs. “Tristram, let us be off.”
Lillian’s words so shocked Ren that for a moment he couldn’t speak. Could the woman not put aside her own self-interests for a single moment, even when her own daughter may be at death’s door? “But what of Jane?”
“Thee said she needs her rest. I will return another time.” She swept straight to the door like a ship under full sail.
Tristram looked up at Ren, baffled. “What would thee have me do?”
“Take her home.” Unfortunate, but illuminating. Lillian would be of no help during this time of need. “Tristram, after you get Lillian settled in, please return here. We have things to discuss.”
As the door closed, he squeezed his eyes shut. Was this God’s way of testing him, of reminding him that he was not in control of his life? It was a lesson he had been schooled in many times at sea, and now on land. When he opened his eyes again, the servant girl stood at the base of the stairs, her chin tucked down, her eyes peeping up at him.
“Patience, is it? I do recall meeting you at Lillian’s house, long ago. I am Reynolds Macy.”
She dipped in a small curtsy. “Yes, Captain, I know. There is a man in the kitchen who says he needs to see you.”
Abraham! “Thank you. I’d forgotten.” It was a gift to return to a normal task, to oversee the unloading of the Endeavour. Another reminder from God, he pondered, as he walked to the kitchen at the back of the house. Life must keep going.
Abraham jumped up from the kitchen table when Ren entered the room, as if he’d been caught sleeping on watch. Hardly the case. Ren smiled at Abraham, or tried to, anyway. “You bring good tidings, Abraham?”
The sailor bowed his head a little. Humble, Ren thought. So unusual for a whaler. Any whaler, low ranking or otherwise. Seamen were a proud bunch, especially on land.
“I am bringing word from the countinghouse. As you asked of me, Captain.”
“Yes, yes. Sit down, Abraham. Tell m’ what they have said. Did the barrels match with our accounting?”
&nb
sp; Abraham did not sit, but Ren did not expect him to. He refused to sit in Ren’s presence—the only order he did not obey.
Ren glanced at Patience. “Would thee take a turn at m’ wife’s side?”
Patience gave a brief nod, filled a teacup for Ren, served it to him, and quietly slipped through the door. Abraham’s eyes remained fixed on the maid. Ren noticed.
Interesting. It would please Ren if Abraham found himself a lass from Nantucket. That would keep him island bound.
Abraham was the finest crewman Ren had ever captained—smart, quick, a cool head under pressure. He’d found him last year in the Barbados and took him on as boatsteerer, a position of skill, intelligence, and keen importance. Abraham was the first Negro employed as crew on the Endeavour. Ren had known of Abraham’s capabilities, though under another captain’s flag. He had little regard for that captain, a cruel and selfish man. That first day, Ren observed the excellent skills of Abraham during a whale hunt. Not only had he made the killing lance, but he had saved the life of another sailor, a foolish lad whose foot had gotten tangled in the rope. After the whale had been caught and butchered, and the oil rendered—a lengthy process—Ren learned that the crew had refused to allow the Negro a bunk or hammock in the forecastle. Abraham had slept his first few nights on the open deck of the Endeavour, its boards still slimy, reeking of whale blood and oil.
When Ren rose unusually early one morning and found Abraham asleep, tucked under the bow, he quickly surmised what had gone on and was outraged with his crew. He called all hands to the upper deck to commend Abraham for his fine work, then promote him to second mate. Ren remembered the silence that fell over the upper deck as shock registered on the faces of the crew. The only sounds were the slapping of the sails above them and the waves below. No man of color had ever advanced further than boatsteerer on a whaling ship.
It was a critical moment for a sea captain. If Ren’s crew walked off, he would be in a dire situation. No doubt they knew it. They would put off in the Azores and find work at the next whaling ship that came through, of which there were plenty. But they’d be losing out on their share of profits as well, a substantial lay. The ship’s hold was nearly full. Nearly, but not quite. He needed each one to remain and bring the ship back to Nantucket Island.
Minding the Light Page 4
