Daphne shook her head so hard the tears splashed onto their clasped hands. “She wasn’t alone. I was right beside her. Breath for breath. And then she did not take in the next breath. I realized she’d—” her voice broke—“she’d gone.”
I can’t bear this, he thought. I can’t bear another moment. And yet, he had to. There was too much to do, too many problems to solve, to allow himself to feel anything. He pushed away the weakness that had started to seep through him. Not now. “Daphne, if you don’t mind, stay with me to tell the children. I think they will need you to be near. And after that, I’m hoping you could be the one to tell your mother.”
“Of course.” She nodded dumbly. “Of course.”
Telling the children was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, his voice sounded strange even to his own ears. He could barely get the words out for his throat had grown so sore. All of him had grown so sore. He made himself say the words, that their mother had gone to heaven, and he knew that this day would forever be marked in their hearts. What was unbearable would eventually become bearable, but all their hearts would be scarred. There were some losses you never got over.
Daphne hugged Hitty while they cried together. Henry sat stock-still in the chair; he didn’t cry. The boy’s reaction worried Ren more than the girl’s.
Before they had told the children, Ren had gone to his dead wife’s bedchamber and put his lips on her delicate cheek. Her face had taken on the ashen-gray color of a gone-cold fire.
So still, so lifeless. Ren studied the face that had seen him through storms at sea, dreary doldrums, wild Nantucket sleighrides, and safely into harbor at last. He looked at her with the great love that had always been the mark of Macy men. His grandfather had enjoyed the good fortune of a loving wife in the sensible Libby Macy, his father had found a love in Angelica Foulger that few men find in their lifetime. From the first moment Ren saw Jane, walking along Main Street, he had loved only her. Moving again to cradle her face in his hands, memorizing each beloved feature, he said, “Goodbye, my darling Jane.” Then his voice broke. “I’m so sorry I failed you so completely. ’Tis the last thing I wanted to do, was to fail you.”
As he sat by the bedside, he thought of what Daphne had told him on the steps of Jane’s last few moments, of lucidity and clarity. Of her hard-wrought messages for the children.
Ren had set his jaw and looked away. “Had she no word for me?”
Daphne dropped her eyes to her lap, the brown silk of her skirt rustled as she shifted her feet. “She did. She said thee must exert thy mind toward the Light and relinquish past grievance. If not for thy sake, then for the children. And she said . . . to not blame thee. That thee was trying to help.”
No words of love? Of regret for the time they’d lost together? Merely warnings. Tears stung Reynolds Macy’s eyes.
He should not feel slighted, but he did. And yet he knew it was his own fault. He had sailed away, leaving Jane to make a life of her own. He shouldn’t resent the fact that the life she’d made left no room for him.
He was the one who’d insisted on going whaling. He had no right to go gadding about the world for all these years, only to show up back here and expect . . . expect . . . what?
To have a place at all.
Daphne sent word to her mother, through Abraham, to come to Orange Street as quickly as possible, yet her mother did not come. Instead, she sent word back for Daphne to return to the house by five o’clock, as they were expected for dinner at the Gardners’. Daphne crinkled the paper and threw it into the kitchen hearth.
She needed to go to her mother, to tell her in person. As she opened the front door, she was surprised to see that the fog was gone and the sun was shining brightly. When had that happened? How could but a few hours have passed? Her sister was gone from this earth, yet life carried on as if it were an ordinary day. It felt almost cruel. She walked slowly through the streets, numbly, trying to absorb all that had occurred in the last few days. How could life have changed so quickly? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right!
When she reached her childhood home, hers and Jane’s, she thought of how many times the sisters had crossed this threshold. It suddenly occurred to her that one of the saddest things about losing a sibling was that there was no one left to share memories with.
She found her mother in the drawing room seated in her favorite damask chair, sewing on her needlework. Her mother glanced up when she saw her. And like she was commenting on the weather, she said, “Oh good. Thee is home. Hurry and change into thy green frock for dinner.”
Daphne turned and blinked at her. No word to ask of Jane, of the children, of Ren. Her mother had spent the last six years pretending she had no elder daughter, no grandchildren. Daphne sat in the chair across from her. “She’s gone, Mama. Jane died today. Early in the afternoon, she took her last breath. I was with her when she died. The children were downstairs, having lunch in the kitchen with Patience, like it was just a regular day. But it wasn’t.”
The words hung there in the air between them, pulsing.
“Did thee hear me? I said that Jane is dead.”
The color drained from her mother’s face. She rose unsteadily from her chair and came close so that Daphne looked into her smooth, pretty face. She gripped Daphne’s arms in a tight clasp, so tight it hurt. “I knew this would happen. When she married that man . . . I knew her life was ruined. That it was over for her.”
“Mama,” Daphne said softly, “Jane’s death has nothing to do with marrying Ren.”
“It has everything to do with him.” She released Daphne and put her hands to her temples, as if struck by a sudden pain. “She turned her back on me, her father, her faith.”
“She never did. She never turned away from thee, not Father, not her faith.” Daphne paused, wondering if it would be wise or foolish to say more. But it had to be said. Someone had to say it. “It was thee who turned away from her.”
Her mother’s shoulders jerked, as if she’d suddenly come awake from a deep sleep. “Thee makes me sound like a monster. Thee is purely hateful to me. Just like Jane was.”
Daphne stared back at her. “Jane did not have a hateful bone in her body. She was always trying to interest thee in her children, to bring thee into her life. Thee is the one who refused her. Thee is the one who cares more about what others think than what God thinks.”
Lillian clapped her hands over her ears. “Thee hush up! How dare thee speak to thy mother like that! Jane was a different girl before he stole her from me.”
Daphne took a deep breath to calm herself, and her stays stabbed into her sides again. “Thee is placing all thy anger thee holds against Father on Reynolds Macy. Ren does not deserve thy wrath.”
“Stop it!” her mother said, her voice loud and sharp.
“Ren’s only crime is that he is a lapsed Friend. I have no doubt he was ever unfaithful to Jane, not like Father was to you.”
Her mother hauled back her hand and slapped Daphne so hard across the face that she rocked backward and fell onto the chair. “Do not speak to me of thy father. Nor of Reynolds Macy! Nor of Jane!”
Daphne brought a trembling hand up to her cheek. “Jane deserves to be remembered. And Ren is suffering, Mama.” She pushed herself up. “I will remain at Orange Street for a while to help with the children. I’m going upstairs to gather a few things.”
“Thee cannot remain at that house without a chaperone! What will others think?”
Daphne didn’t care what anyone on the island thought. Wearily, she walked toward the stairs. She put her hand on the newel post, fingering the mortgage button, made of scrimshaw. “Jane gave me a message for thee, Mama. It was one of the last things she said.”
Her mother lifted her head but did not turn to look at Daphne.
“Jane wanted thee to know that she forgives thee.” Slowly, Daphne walked up the stairs. By the time she had reached the top, she heard her mother burst into tears.
Jane Coffin Macy’s memorial service w
as held two days later, after First Day Meeting. Her body was laid to rest in the Quaker Cemetery on Madaket Road. There would be no monument for her, as the Friends did not believe in such worldly things. It was a flawlessly clear day, and gulls scolded from an azure sky while mourners pressed in a wide, deep circle around the grave. Ren was there, of course, with his children beside him, along with Tristram, Daphne, her mother, and aunts, uncles, and many cousins from both sides of the family. Many Friends had come, as well.
Daphne wore a beige silk dress, as mourning clothes were not permitted, nor was excessive grieving. The Friends did not believe in mourning the dead but in celebrating one’s life.
That evening, after the service, Daphne helped the children get to sleep. This third night without their mother. She cupped Henry’s face, looking into his sad eyes.
“Why did Mama die?”
“Her body was sick and couldn’t get better. But she is well now. She is in heaven.”
“Why didn’t God make her better?”
“I don’t know, Henry. But Scripture tells us that our days are ordained before we are even born. God knew exactly how long thy mother would be on this earth.” She tucked the sheet more snugly around Henry, then Hitty.
As she turned to leave, Hitty said in a small, tight voice, “Will thee lay down with us for a time?”
So Daphne turned down the lamp and stretched out beside them, beside Jane’s children in the dark, waiting for their breathing to fall into the soft, gentle sign of sleep. Hitty fell asleep first, but Henry lay in bed with his eyes wide open. “Still can’t sleep?”
He shook his head.
“Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make thee some warm milk.”
She went into the kitchen and found Ren alone, standing in the middle of the room as if he weren’t quite sure how he’d come to be there.
“Ren, can I help thee find something?”
“Nay, thank you.” He glanced at Henry. “Should not the boy be in bed?”
Daphne felt it before she saw it coming. Something exploded within Henry. His face grew red and his eyes went wide, and it was like he couldn’t hold it in another moment. “Thee did this!” he shouted at Ren. “If thee hadn’t come back, Mama wouldn’t be dead!”
Henry ran toward the door, but Daphne grabbed him and forced him to face her. “Henry, that is not true. ’Tis a wonderful thing that thy father is here. ’Tis no accident that he arrived when he did.”
“She was fine before he came and as soon as he came, she got sick. And then she died!” He choked to a stop. “I hate him! I want him to leave and never come back!” Henry jerked away from her and ran upstairs.
Daphne turned to Ren, who stared at the closed door with an expression of helplessness. “Is that really what the boy thinks?”
And now it was Daphne’s turn to speak out. In a bold, controlled voice she said, “He’s not ‘the boy,’ Ren. He’s not a cabin boy. He’s not a crewman. He’s thy son. His name is Henry and he is thy son. And Hitty, she is thy daughter.”
Ren looked as though someone had wrenched his heart out of his breast and wrung it empty. “Aye, I ken, I ken.” He sank down onto a chair, shoulders drooped.
It was quiet in the kitchen, so quiet, she could hear both of them breathing. It made her think of Jane, struggling so for breath, for air.
“Listen,” he said, after a while of silence between them. “Six years at sea can make a man lose his civility. I’ve never been around children much. M’ own mother said I never was one. I don’t know how to talk to wee ones, other than to sound like a whaling captain.” He set his arms on the table and leaned forward. “The girl, Hitty, she answers me in a polite, subdued voice. Henry remains silent, other than just now, telling m’ he wished I’d go back to the sea. To tell the truth, I prefer his shouting to his silence.” He tried to smile at her, but he couldn’t manage it. He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “The poor little ones, they must be hurting in a keen way, seeing their dear mother lowered into a grave today.”
And he was hurting too. She wanted to comfort him, but she wasn’t sure how.
After a long moment, Ren lifted his head. “Daphne, if you don’t mind, I think I need to be alone.”
She nodded and left the kitchen, then remembered she had forgotten Henry’s warm milk. When she opened the kitchen door, she saw Ren lower his head to the small table and cover his face with his hands. His back shuddered, hard. Shuddered with harsh, silent, wrenching sobs.
Quietly she backed up and closed the door.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
20 September 1662
Summer has returned to the island after leaving us for a few weeks and, I had feared, was gone for good. Happily, the days are once again quite warm. Hot and humid, even. No one complains, for winter is whispering of her arrival with increasingly early twilights and red-leafed cranberry bushes.
Putting up gardens is what is on the islanders’ minds, as we learned a hard lesson from past years. Winters on Nantucket can be very long and very cold.
In Salisbury, we put up our garden but not as extensively as on Nantucket. We must have five times the produce that Mother and I used to put up, and there is still more to do. Tomorrow, all the green beans will be picked and pickled and canned. Catherine pickles everything! All fruits, all vegetables—anything that isn’t dried, but for a few apples and potatoes and carrots. She is overly generous with vinegar and salt.
My mouth puckers even as I write. My hair stinks of brine and vinegar, and my hands and arms have burns from hot syrup and beeswax. My mind often floats back to the ease of going to the shops in Salisbury and simply buying what Mother needed. Such ease is not possible on an island. My store is the only shop, and it has far more fish hooks and harpoons than canning spices.
Everyone takes great pride in being self-sufficient. It is satisfying to look at the shelves in the kitchen and see the rainbow of bottled colors among the fruits and vegetables. God has provided so many variations of colors for our eating pleasure! Blackberries, orange carrots, red rhubarb, bright green peas. Treats for the eyes, as well as the bellies.
Salt hay has been gathered from the meadow for the sheep; the corncrib is full of dried corn for the milk cows. The pigs are fattening fast and will be slaughtered in a few months, Esther’s aging hens will be bottled, and Nathaniel and his father are spending these September days hunting for deer. In short, the Starbuck household is ready for winter.
Catherine has appreciated my help, and I see that Nathaniel was right. As I put more effort into caring for the Starbucks, she has grown more tolerant of me. As long as I defer to her and let her tell me what to do, we seem to get along fairly well. She is very sensitive, as is Esther, although their sensitivity extends only to their own tender feelings.
It is wearing at times to hold my tongue, but it is a good and needed discipline. It lessens the strain I feel with Nathaniel, for he gets tugged back and forth between mother and wife. All in all, ’tis not an easy thing, this joining to another family. I long for a home of my own.
Someday, Nathaniel assures me, and I have learned ’tis futile to press him any further. My own father was a man of action; no sooner had he heard of a new venture, and he was ordering Mother to pack up. My husband is the opposite. He is cautious by nature, and satisfied with “somedays.”
Father has made many mistakes by bending to his impulsive nature. Nathaniel has made very few. The fact that I chose a man like Nathaniel is telling, is it not?
And therein lies my answer. “Someday” will come soon enough.
15 October 1662
This morning, the yard was covered with hoarfrost and the water bucket had a thin layer of ice on top. ’Tis a warning of what is soon to come.
I had thought that with winter approaching, I would have more time for writing, but I’ve decided that there is less to write about in the colder months.
Today is an exception.
Catherine is beside herself. She received a letter from h
er eldest child, Sarah Varney, who lives over on the mainland. Sarah has become a Quaker!
Catherine cannot stop weeping. She thinks her daughter’s soul has been lost. She is inconsolable.
Peter Foulger came into the store today and did not seem to be in a hurry, which is one of the things I enjoy about him. He always seems to have plenty of time for important conversations, though I know he is a purposeful man with many demands on him. I offered to make him a cup of tea, and he happily accepted, settling into a chair by the stove. I told him about Sarah Varney’s conversion. “It is startling to realize that the Quakers are making headway into converting others,” I said.
He agreed, and so I posed the question that was on my mind, “Do you agree that a Quaker is lost to God?”
Peter smiled. “They do not think so. Their concern is for everyone else to see and respond to the Inner Light as they do.” That did not satisfy me, and I was hopeful he was not going to leave me with a question to answer my question. He often does.
He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Mary, have you ever seen a stone archway?”
“I have. In Boston.”
“An arch is an architectural marvel. It holds together because the stones are carved to fit together perfectly.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I knew Peter well enough to know that something wonderful might soon unfold to satisfy my curiosity about Quakerism.
“’Tis that center piece that keeps the arch in place. The keystone.” He finished his tea, rose, and handed the teacup back to me. “’Tis all about the keystone, Mary. Think on that.” Then he lifted his hand in a cheerful wave and left the store.
Think on . . . what?
16 October 1662
I woke in the night with the answer to Peter’s riddle.
Minding the Light Page 8
