by Ron Carter
At two-thirty p.m. Billy walked up beside him, and Matthew looked at him long enough to shake his head, then resume scanning the horizon with his telescope. At three p.m. Matthew turned to Billy. “No need to stay.”
“Sure?”
“Go on home. She might not come in until tomorrow, or the next day.”
Billy turned to go, and at that instant Matthew started and then his breath constricted, and Billy stopped.
For two full minutes Matthew studied the incoming sails and the cut of the ship. Square sails, squat, square ship, unlike the slim lines of schooners or frigates. “She might be Dutch,” Matthew said quietly. He was scarcely breathing.
Billy stood quietly, unmoving, waiting while minutes passed.
Suddenly Matthew hunched forward and for an instant dropped his telescope from his eye and stared, then raised the scope again. “Her colors are Dutch! Dutch!” he exclaimed. “Red, white, blue! It has to be her.”
Billy turned on his heel and was gone, and Matthew realized it but did not move, standing like a statue, waiting for the name on the bow of the ship to come into focus large enough to read.
Minutes became a quarter of an hour, then half an hour, and Matthew waited until he was certain, then exclaimed, “Van Otten! It’s the Van Otten! She might be on it—has to be on it.”
The ship came steadily on, square sails full, blunt bow carving a wake, and Matthew studied the rail through the telescope. There were only the seamen, making ready for the pilot boat to meet them and bring them into the harbor. Hawsers were cast, and reaching hands on the pilot boat caught them, and the small boat turned and began the slow work of bringing the ship through the channel into her dock. Matthew’s eyes did not leave the railing, searching for the figure of a woman, or children, but there were only seamen on the main deck and two officers by the helmsman. He felt a sick grab in the pit of his stomach and licked dry lips, suddenly fearful.
Behind him he heard his name called, and he turned. Billy was there with Margaret and Brigitte and Adam and Prissy and Trudy, working through the crowd. Matthew turned back and watched as seamen cast their hawsers and rough hands tied up the ship. One man raised the hinged section of railing for the gangplank, and four pigtailed sailors moved the heavy oak structure forward to lower it thumping on the dock. They locked it in position and stepped back.
Matthew stood rooted, eyes sweeping the rail. Then two seamen came with trunks and set them by the gangplank, and suddenly she was there behind them, moving forward with the children beside her.
Matthew leaped to the gangplank and she saw him and her hands flew to her mouth as he pounded upward. Then he was on the deck, and he swept her into his arms, and she threw her arms about him and buried her face in his shoulder. She clung to him, and he held her with all his strength, and they stood in the warm, early November afternoon sun, eyes closed, lost in each other, aware only that the terrible ache in their hearts was gone. Tears of relief, of wild joy, came, and they let them come. Hardened seamen, faces seamed and burned brown by sun and sea, stopped near them on deck and stood in respectful silence at the sight of a man and a woman who loved each other more than life. Charles and Faith looked at the two, and at each other, and shuffled their feet, knowing something profound was happening but unable to understand the depth of it.
On the dock, Margaret clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, and tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. Brigitte stared at the scene, seeing herself and Richard up on the deck in the embrace of sweethearts, and she reached to wipe at brimming eyes. Adam and Prissy and Trudy stood wide-eyed, unmoving, awestruck.
Billy’s heart was bursting for Matthew. His friend. The brother he never had. The child, the adolescent, the man, who had been there as far back as memory could reach. Standing up on the deck holding his world in his arms, tears on his face, lost in the most powerful, sacred feelings the Almighty has given to His children. Billy glanced at Brigitte, and saw her face, and did not look again.
After a time, Matthew took Kathleen by the shoulders and held her away from him, studying her face as though he could not believe she was home. He reached to gently wipe at the tears that were flowing, and she let him. Then he held her face in his hands and kissed her with a tenderness and yearning that had been gathering in his heart for three long, desolate years.
Only then did he become aware of the first mate standing nearby, and he turned to him as the short, stout man spoke in a thick Dutch accent.
“Sir, we can move the trunks to the docks at any time.”
For Matthew it was coming from a far place, back to the world of reality. “I didn’t mean . . . am I holding up your crew?”
A smile crossed the man’s face. “It’s all right. These men will wait. Let us know when.”
“Now will be fine.”
Matthew led Kathleen down the gangplank to the dock where Margaret seized her to hold her to her breast, with Kathleen’s arms around her, and they were both weeping. She kissed Kathleen on the cheek and released her, and Brigitte was there, arms around Kathleen, the two young women locked in an embrace. They parted and Kathleen turned to throw her arms about Billy, and he held her for a time before he stepped back. Then they were all chattering, laughing, and weeping, trying to grasp the full meaning of what was happening.
Kathleen was home! The three dark years without her, without hope of ever seeing her again, were behind them. She was home! Kathleen and Matthew were whole again, consumed in the wonder of the reawakening of their reason for living.
The seamen set the trunks on the docks, the first mate came to give Kathleen the receipt for payment of her passage, tipped his cap, and walked back to his ship.
Margaret took control. Kathleen and the children were coming to the Dunson home for a few days while they made plans. No arguments! Matthew hailed a man with a horse and cart and, with Billy helping, loaded the trunks. He paid the man one-half his fee, the other half due when the trunks were delivered, gave directions to the Dunson home, and the man climbed to the high seat of the cart.
With Matthew and Kathleen leading, they walked away from the docks toward the center of Boston, where Matthew stopped two carriages for hire. They all boarded the coaches, Matthew gave directions, the drivers slapped the reins on the rumps of their horses, and the small procession moved from the city to the narrow cobblestone streets bordered by trees blazing with the colors of fall, white picket fences, and sturdy homes.
They were one block from the Thorpe house, windows shuttered, yard in disarray, when Kathleen stiffened, and Margaret leaned forward to place her hand on her knee.
“You’re not going there. You’re coming to stay with us for a while.”
“That isn’t—” she began, but Margaret cut her off.
“No arguments. That house has been closed for years, and it’s not the place for you to be, at least for now.”
“But there are three of us, and all the trunks . . .”
Billy said, “Could Charles and Faith stay with us? We have an extra bedroom. Faith can sleep with Trudy.”
Margaret bobbed her head. “It’s settled.”
Matthew nodded. “Billy and I can open the Thorpe House. It will be good to have someone there again.”
The following morning, with Brigitte and the children gone to school, Matthew, with Kathleen by his side and Margaret behind, stepped out into the crisp, clear November air. Smoke from chimneys all over Boston rose straight into the air like wispy white columns supporting the heavens. They walked steadily toward the Thorpe home, and Matthew felt Kathleen stiffen as they approached. The salt sea air had peeled the paint on the once proud front fence, and the gate sagged on rusted hinges. The boarded windows gave the eerie feeling of blind eyes. The grass in the yard was clumped, long and shaggy, and had partially overgrown the brick walkway that led from the gate to the front door. The trees had spread their branches at random, misshapen, some broken and dead.
Kathleen fumbled for her key and handed it to Matthew.
The lock complained, and the door groaned when he swung it open. They stepped into the once gracious parlor, and the dank, musty smell of stale air and mold slowed them. For a moment Kathleen’s chin trembled, and Margaret saw it. She walked on into the gloom of the silent, vacuous room, stopped in the center with her hands on her hips, and looked about for a moment, aware that few things in life are more melancholy than an abandoned home that had once been filled with life and hope and laughter.
“Well, it looks like we have work to do. Matthew, get the boards off the windows and get them open. Got to get some light and air in here.” She shook her head. “No curtains, no furniture, no anything. This place feels like a tomb.” She turned to Kathleen. “One good thing about it. Now we can fix it the way we want. You ready?”
From behind Matthew came Billy’s voice. “Yes, we’re ready.”
For eight days they labored, dawn to dark. Washing, scrubbing, sewing, digging, trimming trees, grass, flower beds, painting, hanging doors and gates, cleaning chimney flues, moving in furniture, beds, lamps, lanterns, stocking the root cellar, the pantry. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the dark memories of the shattering downfall of Henry Thorpe, and the ghosts that lurked within the walls faded. They returned to the Dunson home each night, exhausted but with a feeling of excitement, a growing sense of satisfaction at what was happening. The house Kathleen thought she could never again call home was rapidly becoming a thing of pride for her, and for them all.
On the ninth day, with the late afternoon sun casting long shadows eastward, Matthew quietly took Margaret outside to stand by the back wall where Billy had split and stacked four cords of firewood.
“Tomorrow I’m going to ask Kathleen to be my wife. Is it too soon after all she’s been through? Do I have your blessing?”
With eyes brimming, Margaret embraced her eldest. “Too soon? Between you two? You have my blessing. You’ve had it since you were children.”
Matthew held his mother close and bent his head to kiss her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you.”
The following afternoon, with the work finished of making the Thorpe house into a new home, one filled with their labor of love and new hope, Matthew added a log to the fire in the fireplace then helped Kathleen with her coat. They walked out into the chill November air for the return to the Dunson home. They prepared their evening meal with Kathleen’s eyes shining in anticipation. With the supper dishes finished, Matthew drew Kathleen to one side, and without a word helped her with her coat, then put on his own.
She faced him with an unspoken inquiry in her eyes. Are we going somewhere?
He raised a finger to stop the question, opened the door, took her by the hand, and led her out into the starry night, filled with the sounds and the smells that were the foundations of the mosaic of their lives. Without any conversation he led her back to the Thorpe home, through the gate and front door and into the parlor. He helped her with her coat, removed his own, and sat her at the dining table, then turned to light a single lamp on the fireplace mantel. Kathleen’s face was a study in puzzlement, with only a slight hint of an inner excitement.
In the light of the fire and the single lamp, Matthew knelt before her on one knee, and there was a gentleness and an intensity in his voice and face that she had never before heard or seen as he took her hands in his.
“Kathleen, I love you above all else in life. For three years I thought I had lost you. I could not bear that again. I am unwilling to go further without knowing you are mine forever. I have brought you here to ask you to be my wife. Will you consider it?”
Neither knew how long Kathleen sat without moving, looking into Matthew’s dark eyes, heart bursting with a joy she had never known. When she found her voice, she raised a hand to touch his cheek and quietly said, “Yes. I will be your wife.”
He raised her up and reached to kiss her tenderly, then drew her into his arms. They stood thus for a long time, in the warmth of the home in which she had been raised, with the firelight casting shadows.
Without a word Matthew helped her with her coat, shrugged into his own, and together they banked the fire, turned the wheel that shut down the lamp, and walked through the door out into the starry night. Content just to be together, they walked without speaking, arms linked, through the quiet streets. When they reached the Dunson home, Matthew held the door for her.
Inside, Margaret stopped still in the archway to watch the two enter. For three seconds she studied them, their eyes, their faces. Her heart leaped, and she instantly burst into tears.
“Oh, would you look at you two! When is the wedding?”
* * * * *
They came to the small white church in two’s and three’s and in families, in the bright sunlight of a November Sunday afternoon. The Reverend Silas Olmsted stood, wearing his black robe, white hair shining, bearded face aglow with a rare joy as he faced his congregation. Most of them had known Silas since they could remember; they were a family. His family. They filled the small chapel to share the wedding of two they had known from childhood and had helped raise.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two young people in the holy bonds of matrimony. Matthew Dunson and Kathleen Thorpe.”
Before him stood Matthew, tall, straight, wearing the uniform of a Continental Naval Officer. Beside him was Kathleen, in a simple white dress fashioned with loving hands by Margaret and Dorothy.
“Marriage is ordained of God. It is the highest and holiest covenant between a man and a woman.”
Billy turned far enough to glance at Brigitte. She was staring at her brother, silently wiping tears, and an ache surged in Billy’s heart. Her Richard is gone—she’ll never stand beside him. Never.
“Who gives this woman in marriage?”
Billy stepped forward. “I do. She has conferred that authority upon me.” Billy glanced at Matthew as the thought passed through his mind: First Eli, now Matthew—I’m always giving these women to someone else in marriage. When is it my turn? He could not stifle the flicker of a wry grin as the thought left him.
“If any have reason these two should not be joined as husband and wife, let them speak now or forever hold their piece.”
Margaret’s face was a mix of memories, heartache, joy, anticipation, and she had her handkerchief ready.
“ . . . Matthew Dunson and Kathleen Thorpe. By the authority of the state of Massachusetts vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife, legally and lawfully married.”
A sigh filled the chapel.
“Do you wish to give your bride a ring?”
Carefully Matthew placed a simple gold wedding band on Kathleen’s finger.
“You may kiss your bride.”
The two beautiful, radiant young people turned to face each other, and Matthew drew her close, and Kathleen raised her face to his kiss. Women wept and strong men looked at the floor, then the ceiling, then at the two young people who were lost in the each other, oblivious to the world.
Muffled sobs and sniffles filled the chapel, then open, joyful talk as the newlyweds turned to walk down the aisle, out into the sunshine.
The street to the Dunson home, and the yard and the house, were filled with friends and loved ones who gathered to laugh and hug the newlyweds, and confer their blessings upon them. Brigitte and Trudy and Prissy brought tray after tray of breads, tarts, and pastries, and gallons of sweet apple cider to the tables in the parlor and dining room, where they steadily disappeared. The pain and suffering of the war faded in the warmth of the chatter and the laughter and the renewing of bonds between old and beloved friends. The sun set and lamps were lighted. As twilight drifted into darkness, the gathering began to thin, and finally the last of them donned their coats, hugged Margaret and Dorothy and the newlyweds one more time, and were gone.
Margaret marched to the cloak rack near the front door and took Kathleen’s coat, then Matthew’s, from their hooks and walked to the two, standing side by side near the parlor fireplace. She handed them to M
atthew.
“Good night.”
Kathleen raised a hand in protest. “There’s so much to be cleaned up . . .”
Margaret shook her head. “Not for you. Good night.”
Matthew helped Kathleen with her coat, then put on his own, and turned to his mother and took her by the shoulders.
“Mother, thank you. There is nothing else I can say. Thank you.”
He pulled her inside his arms, and she reached to hold him for a moment.
With her chin trembling, Kathleen seized Margaret to hold her tight, and Margaret held her, kissing her cheek, murmuring, “Bless you, child. Bless you.”
Matthew turned to Billy, and the two men silently embraced each other.
Brigitte wiped at her eyes, and Kathleen walked to her to embrace her, then backed away without speaking.
Trudy and Prissy and Adam stood near the food table, watching the adults, wondering when all the tears and hugging would cease so they could resume the real purpose of the evening, which obviously centered on devouring more of the tarts and pastries.
Matthew walked to Dorothy, and reached to hold her, and she held him, followed by Kathleen.
The couple paused at the front door for one moment to look back at the people who were the core of their lives. Then the two of them stepped out into the night. They walked arm and arm in the cobblestone street, saying nothing, slowing as they came to the gate leading to the Thorpe home. Matthew held the gate, then opened the door, and they entered. While Matthew lighted the parlor lamp and added wood to the coals banked in the fireplace, Kathleen walked quietly into the master bedroom and closed the door. Minutes later Matthew followed.
She stood beside the great bed in the dim light of a single lamp. She wore a white nightgown, closed at the throat and wrists, long dark hair brushed free, and white slippers on her feet. He paused for a moment, knowing he would see her thus but once in his life.
