Phoebe felt a surge of pride over Captain Foulger’s accomplishments. It shamed her to admit that one of Matthew Macy’s criticism of her was accurate: she was overly impressed by wealth, by luxury and lavishness. Was it because her father had caused such insecurity that wealth seemed so inviting, so alluring, so comforting? An abundance of money seemed to be the answer to all of life’s problems, or most of them, anyway.
A month ago, Sarah had asked Phoebe to sew a new winter wardrobe for her. Phoebe was a reluctant but skilled seamstress, grateful for the work. Very grateful.
This last spring, Barnabas’s herd of sheep had been devastated by a skin condition that caused the poor woolies to lose their thick fleece. The pasture was littered with tufts of wool. The sheep of Barnabas Starbuck were no longer permitted to graze in the common area but confined to a small fenced pasture. Then the constable came across seventeen balding sheep wandering in the streets of Nantucket and impounded them.
Her father claimed he had neglected to mind the sheep because he had been distracted by the pain of a corrupt tooth . . . which had inspired him to create a dentrifice of his own invention—a mixture of cuttlebone, brown sugar, gunpowder, and saltpeter. Not a bad undertaking, even Phoebe agreed, as so many elderly Nantucketers had lost their teeth. But the problem lay in the ingredients of the dentrifice. The gunpowder and the saltpeter, combined together, became toxic to the user. Suffice to say it was a disastrous endeavor.
And Barnabas was slapped with an extra fine for the wandering sheep. (The constable’s wife had tried Barnabas’s dentrifice.) This was not an unusual event.
Phoebe counted on her modest income as a seamstress to cobble together a way to make ends meet, even if barely—and how she hated sewing, hated, hated, hated it!—plus she had turned away other smaller projects to take on Sarah’s large wardrobe.
Today, she thought she might ask if Sarah would be willing to pay her in advance. It wouldn’t cover the entire defaulted loan that her father had made, but it would be a start and might prove to Horace Russell that she would make good on the remainder. A fine plan, she thought.
So with some trepidation, Phoebe was eager to be welcomed into Sarah Foulger’s grand chamber. But welcoming was not the word to describe Sarah on this gray morning. “Thee is late on the tide. Thy services are no longer required.”
Phoebe searched Sarah’s face to see if she spoke in jest, but her gaze was direct. “Sarah . . . be reasonable. I was downstairs, waiting for thee.”
Sarah flicked that excuse away. “’Tisn’t that. Father is sending me to Boston to have my entire wardrobe made over. He brought back bolts and bolts of fabrics of the finest quality. He traded for them in the Bahamas.”
Phoebe dipped her chin. “I have made many dresses of fine cloth for Friends.”
“Not these kinds of fabrics. Silks and cashmeres. And I will have mitts and fans made, even a hoop. The Boston maids are wearing corsets now.”
“Corsets?”
“Corsets.” Sarah spoke in a tone to suggest Phoebe might be a dimwitted child. “To help keep a woman’s youthful figure. They make one’s shape appear straight up and down.” She made for the door. “I have much to do. Clara Swain is coming for dinner tonight. I’m on a mission to convince my father to marry again, and I believe she hopes he’ll settle on her. I daresay Father has taken a fancy to her.” She smiled smugly at Phoebe. “No doubt Mother would be pleased. They’re first cousins, of course.”
Phoebe stared at Sarah. Clara Swain! Of all people. Why, she was older than the captain and so utterly pious that even bedbugs stood at attention as she entered a room.
That night at supper, Phoebe found herself with uncommonly little to say to her father. She wondered if Clara Swain was dining at 28 Orange Street at this very moment, then abruptly dismissed the question. She had plenty of other fish to fry. Rather troublesome fish.
Matthew finished up repairing Henry Coffin’s adze by midday and set it aside next to his smoothing tool. He gazed out the window—what a glorious day! The morning fog had burned off, leaving the rest of the day to a warm and slanting autumn sun. The harbor shone like glass, the masts shined on the water’s surface like reflections in a mirror.
Just then a voice interrupted his musing. “Matthew?”
He spun around. In the doorway stood Barnabas Starbuck. “Is thee busy?”
“Never too busy for you,” Matthew said.
As Barnabas walked into the cooperage, he picked up the adze and peered at the initials on the handle, then carefully set it down. Something was on the old man’s mind.
Hands clasped behind his back, he walked slowly around the cooperage, kicking at the sawdust and wood shavings that littered the planks. “Matthew, I was wondering . . . does thee have any knowledge of candle making? Spermaceti candles, that is.”
“Refining the oil for candles? Nay. I have heard ’tis a tricky process. Those who have cracked it won’t share any information.”
Barnabas frowned. “Exactly what I have heard.”
“Someone on the island should try, though. ’Tis ridiculous to think we do not have the ability, when the whale oil is sitting right here.” He pointed at the window toward Captain Foulger’s warehouse.
“Indeed it is.” Barnabas lifted up the adze. “’Tis Henry Coffin’s?”
“Aye. I just finished its repair. You caught me thinking of closing up shop and delivering it to Henry Coffin myself. Seems a shame to waste such a beautiful day by staying indoors.”
“Henry would appreciate a visit. Not sure if thee has heard, but he was recently fired by Captain Foulger.”
“Fired? He’d guarded the warehouse for years. What reason was given?”
“No reason.”
“Huh. That’s rather hard-hearted.”
“Indeed.” Barnabas walked to the window and stood on his tiptoes to look at the Foulger warehouse. “Has thee seen the cargo unloaded from the Fortuna?”
“I can’t say that I’ve noticed. Heard it was chocked off, though. A full hold.”
“But thee hasn’t seen any barrels rolled into the warehouse? Nary a single one?”
“Three ships are in port this week. ’Tis hard to discern which lighter belongs to which ship.”
“Aye.”
“Barnabas, what are you getting at?”
The older man’s face seemed clouded as he turned to Matthew. “Nothing, m’ boy. Nothing at all. Only that Henry Coffin might appreciate a visit, if thee’s half a mind to it.”
Matthew grinned. “I’ve still more than a half a mind, I hope.” He followed Barnabas to the door after putting the Closed sign up. Henry Coffin, he recalled, did make a nice apple brandy from his orchard trees.
Phoebe returned home from buying meat and vegetables from a farmer’s cart on Main Street and found the latchstring hanging out. Her father left a note to say he was off to research candle making. She rolled her eyes. How many times had he seen Phoebe and her mother make bayberry candles in the keeping room? Dozens!
She had much to do, but she felt restless and anxious. She sliced carrots, onions, and parsnips for a beef stew, one of her father’s favorites, and wondered how much longer she would be cooking in this keeping room. Thirty days! Nay, it was down to twenty-four now. How was she ever going to find the money to pay off the defaulted loan?
She picked up the poker to stir the coals of the fire, added a few handfuls of peat and a stick of driftwood to the embers, then watched the flames sputter up. After hanging the heavy iron cauldron on the crane, she stood for a long moment, absentmindedly stirring the stew. The fire was low but hot, and in the flickering of the firelight she noticed her great-grandmother’s journal on the chair by the window, right where she had left it.
Fresh air. That’s what she needed to clear the tangle of her jumbled thoughts.
She covered the stew with the heavy cauldron lid, grabbed Great Mary’s journal, stuffed it into her drawstring purse, and headed outside.
Mary Coffin
Ever since the Quaker lady perished in the night, Father has been in a stew. It is not unusual for Father to be in an outrage over the interference of government, followed close behind with a rant over the absurdity of taxation. He left England to stop the long fingers of government from dipping into his purse. And now he wants to leave Massachusetts.
Mother asked him where he thinks he will find this peace he is searching for and he had no answer for her.
It will always be in the next place, I suspect. (I did not share that sentiment aloud.)
After Father left the house, quite in a huff, Mother gazed out the small window, watching him stomp off, and said it is a man’s pride that makes him so stubborn. She called it their dreadful affliction.
I am grateful to be born a maid.
5 December 1658
’Twas my dearest friend Heppy’s fourteenth birthday today. I gave her a sheepskin journal, just like the one Mother gave me last February for my own birthday. I added the same warning to Heppy that Mother gave to me, to never forget the Almighty Lord is reading every word. ’Tis a bit of an intimidating mantle to wear each time I pick up my quill and dip it in the inkpot, but I suppose it does bridle my tongue from blustering on and on about my worst brother, Tristram Jr.
Heppy’s birthday holds great sadness for her, and great joy for me. Her mother died on her eighth birthday, and her father sent her to Salisbury to live with his great-aunt, a wonderfully eccentric elderly dame for whom Heppy was named—Hepzipah Childers—and who happens to be our closest neighbor.
When Goody Childers discovered that Heppy had not been taught to read, she promptly hired a tutor. And because she knew I had taught myself to read by borrowing the books of my older brothers, she asked Father to allow me to join in with the sessions. She thought I might be helpful to inspire Heppy, to provide lively discussion. (Goody Childers told Mother that I was blessed with the gift of conversation. I thought it a lovely compliment, the nicest I’d ever been given, until Tristram Jr. said it meant I never stopped talking.)
Father hesitated to agree, concerned that Mother needed my help at home. Goody Childers assured him she would provide compensation for the tutor. At that, Father smiled. Pennies and pence are dear to him.
And so began a time of great blessings. My friendship with dearest Heppy, and sitting under the tutelage of Elder Toth.
I had only seen Elder Toth at church. Our family pew sat two behind his. I was not convinced I would enjoy being tutored by such an imposing man, as wide as he is tall, but he quickly won my heart. After settling his rather portly self into his chair, he peered at us over his spectacles and uttered in his raspy voice, “Little maids, do not let anyone snuff out your fire!”
I have never forgotten those wise words from Elder Toth. They are written on my heart.
4
15th day of the ninth month in the year 1767
Phoebe walked a long way down Cliff Road, walking and walking, until she came to a stop, staring out at the meadow of the Founders’ Burial Ground. Somewhere here, in an unmarked grave, her great-grandmother Mary was buried. That’s how the Quakers did things: a minimum of fanfare. But there were moments when Phoebe wished the Quakers were not always so mindful of outward pride and would allow things such as headstones, so she could know with certainty where her great-grandmother’s grave lay. She wished she could stand in front of it and ask questions of the woman known throughout the island for her wisdom and good judgment. The Great Lady of Nantucket she was called. How would her great-grandmother advise Phoebe about the quandaries she currently faced?
“You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”
Phoebe stiffened when she heard the familiar voice, realizing that Matthew Macy stood just a few feet from her. She spun around to face him and thought, for just a split second, she caught an expression of longing in his eyes, here and then gone. “How long has thee been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you’ve got some kind of problem.”
Matthew was spectacularly unconcerned about being disowned by the Society of Friends. Why, he even dropped his thee’s and thou’s on the morning after he had been disowned. A way of openly displaying his irreverence. Even if with but a foot, nay, but one toe, he must step outside the circle. Phoebe’s aunt Dorcas sized Matthew up succinctly: “He not only goes out on a limb, he takes the saw along.”
A queer mélange of feelings twisted within her: familiarity, caution, sorrow. Silently, she studied him. He had changed little since his return last spring. Tall as a tree, hard-muscled, thick black hair, a magnificent hawk nose, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. The slanting afternoon sun tinted his eyes even bluer. She was particularly vulnerable to those eyes, so she took care to keep her chin tucked whenever she encountered him. All in all, he could be quite attractive—quite—with a shave and a haircut, but he cared nothing for what others thought of him. “Why is thee here?”
“Had to deliver something down the road to Henry Coffin’s farm.” He took a few strides to draw closer to her, close enough that she caught the smell of brandy on his breath. “So what brings you here . . . to the final resting place of these old settlers?” He gestured an arm toward the large grassy field, dotted here and there with scrub bushes and trees.
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Thee is half seas over.” Drunk!
He was indifferent to her appraisal. “Let me guess what troubles you. I’ll bet it has something to do with you hoping to court a man as old as your father.”
That was not true! Phineas Foulger was half her father’s age.
He smirked. “But here’s the real dilemma: how will you be able to tell them apart?”
Phoebe’s head came up with a jerk. “I don’t know what thee is talking about.”
“You and the captain. He was seen paying a call to your house.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “It’s caused quite a stir among the Quaker matrons and maidens. Especially the ones who have hoped to set a trap for him.”
“He stopped by the house, ’tis all.”
“I have to hand it to the captain. ’Tis uncommon for any man over forty to be found on a whaling ship. ’Tis dangerous work. Most men his age are patching sail or shoring up slack.” The sound of bleating sheep floated from off in the distance. “Or mayhap, minding fleeceless sheep?”
Was that an arrow aimed at her father? Phoebe narrowed her eyes, thinking of how she no longer liked—indeed, couldn’t abide—Matthew Macy. There was a time when she found his sarcasm and mockery to be amusing. What was once witty and droll was now harsh and condemning.
She had recently pointed out that any self-respecting cooper would not accept a commission to carve figureheads for a ship. They were considered good-luck charms, to see the ships safely back to shore. Worldly, utterly profane, thoroughly secular. He had responded by saying that it was not a conflict to him because he was not a self-respecting man.
But there was the rub. For all of Matthew’s annoying ways, he was a much-respected man. His excellent cooper skills were in high demand, he was well liked by seamen, and these two qualities made him hard to avoid. It galled her to think she once fancied him.
Matthew quirked his dark eyebrows. “’Tis a foolish notion.”
“What is?”
“Captain Phineas Foulger. You’ve set your sights on him. As I recall, you’ve always had a fondness for him. I remember how, even as a schoolgirl, you would stand outside his house and stare at it.”
Phoebe tipped her chin in his direction, though she didn’t look at him directly. How would he possibly know of her heart’s desire? She had told no one. She felt her cheeks tingle, and then her neck. She didn’t want to reveal to Matthew that he had irked her, had found her out, but her next words shot out like a challenge. “What concern of that belongs to thee?”
“Well, in a way, it is. If the captain marries himself a young maid, she might convince him to stay home. And that’s bad business for the cooperage.”
Of course! Of course he found a way to make it all about him.
“So, Phoebe, do tell. Have you decided, then? ’Tis better to have no husband at all or to have one who is never home?”
She frowned. That was a question that circled through every Nantucket woman’s mind.
“One thing I’ve always wondered, and you might be just the one to clear up this conundrum, being as you’re such a devout Quakeress . . . Don’t you think it’s odd that the captain insists on being called Captain Foulger?”
Yes. Yes, Phoebe did. She found it very odd. The Friends eschewed titles of any kind to avoid pride and as a subtle reminder that all were equal in God’s eyes—man, woman, white, black. Servants called their employers by their Christian name. She also had a hope that the captain would stop referring to her as “my child.” But she would not admit anything to Matthew Macy.
“And another question about your fine community of Friends.”
She cringed, crossing her arms and holding her elbows. Once, it was his community of Friends too.
“There is a strong emphasis on love in all relationships, is there not?”
“Thee knows the theology as well as I do.”
“Why is it that they seem to only love other Quakers, then? Unless, of course, a transaction benefits them financially. Then they seem to be considerably open-minded.”
What could she say to that? His critique was not unfounded, but he focused on what was wrong with the Society of Friends rather than all that was right. He always had. “Not everyone is motivated solely by riches. Most Friends embrace seasoning. Most seek the Light of God in all their dealings.”
“Like you?” He scoffed. “You certainly wasted no time choosing a walking oil barrel.”
“Me? Me! What about thee? Thee went off to pursue oil, bone, and ambergris.” She shouldn’t have said that. The disaster of the Pearl, his father’s ship, was too serious, too heartbreaking to fling in indignation. In a softer voice, she added, “I did not refuse thee for a lack of wealth, but of faith.”
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