Page 62 of Miss Whittier Makes a List
He took her face between his hands, and she held her breath, hoping.
“I do not love you, HannahWhittier,”he told her, saying each word distinctly, as though he spoke to a child just learning speech.“You are young, and silly, and impulsive, and a dreadful nuisance. I cannot imagine what I was thinking.”His voice rose, too.“I do not love you! Is that enough?”
He released her and she stepped back, her whole body limp. She dragged herself back intobed, pulled the covers up, and turned her face to the wall.
“Itis enough.”
“Good night, then. I’ll see to a post chaise for you in the morning.”
He closed the door behind him and left her to the most acute misery she could imagine, an agony almost physical that raked against every nerve in her body like aharrowover winter stubble. It was shame, humiliation, embarrassment, regret, horror, and bitterness all rolled into one terrible blow that struck at herheartand left her bleeding from unseen wounds. She could only lie thereand suffer as though from a mortalblow that struck her again and again, pulling no punches.
She lay there, her hands in tight fists, willing herself dead. In a terrible flash, she understood finally why Andrew Lease could drop a lighted match in his medicine satchel filled with gunpowder. Love gone was deadly pain, and she groaned as it bowed her to the ground. She waited for death to release her, but it did not. After a time, the pain was augmented by the most exquisite urge to flee from Daniel Spark’s house, even if she had to walk all the way toPortsmouth.
She was out of bed then and in the dressing room, reaching with numb fingers for her dressing case. She only needed a few dresses, a nightgown, and a cloak for the journey. In a moment, she was dressed warmly and the dressing case was full, but not too full. She could carry it across the fields until she came to the village and the mail coach that stopped early in front of the inn.
She started to draw on her gloves, then looked around the room again and stopped to make her bed. Thee is not entirely dead to duty, HannahWhittier, even if thee is silly and impulsive and a dreadful nuisance. Shark chum. She covered her mouth with her hand, wishing she were outside so she could throw up into the bushes and be done with it. She fought down the nausea and pulled on her gloves.
She left her door open, fearing to make any more noise than needful. She knew the stairs well enough to skip the squeaky treads. She had trouble lighting a candle in the bookroom because her hands would not stop shaking, but she finally managed to put the match to the wick. Using the tiny light, she found the pile of coins that Daniel was accumulating in ajar by the window. It would be enough for the mail coach, and he said he had already booked passage, so she need not fear that expense.
Dawn was coming as she let herself out of the house. She traveled the lane swiftly, looking back once, and then turning away as tears finally blurred her eyes. Thee cannot cry, she told herself over and over, and it became the cadence that got her across Daniel Spark’s fields ripe for harvest, to the village, and onto the mail coach bound forPortsmouth.
To her inexpressible agony, Portsmouth next day was full of naval officers in uniform. To her further distress, one of them was Mr. Futtrell. The distress lasted only long enough for him to call her name in surprise. For the second time in her life, she fell into his arms, but this was different fromLisbon. Her tears wouldn’t come, and she could only shiver and shake her head at his questions. She finally managed to gasp,“He told me he doesn’t love me.”
Mr. Futtrell stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief, then gathered her close.“I told him it was no life for a woman,”he said finally, his voice filled with remorse.“I am sorry. Hannah.”
She stood in his embrace until she felt strong enough to remain on her feet by herself.“I am to sail on theBonny Jean.Can you take me there?”
He took her dressing case in one hand and tucked her hand under his elbow.“I always seem to be rescuing you from docks,”he said, and she was aware enough of what she owed him to manage the wan smile he was so desperate to see.“There you are, my dear. Come on. It’s not much farther.”
She almost gasped with relief to hear the stringent Yankee accent so like her own as Mr. Futtrell introduced her to Captain Josiah Trask fromBoston. She must have looked as sick as she felt, because thecaptain took her right on board,barely giving her time to saygoodbyeto Mr. Futtrell.
“We’ll sail tomorrow, Miss Whittier,”Captain Trask said.“Tide’ll be right then.”He rubbed his jaw as he walked her along the dim companionway.“I can’t say I’ll be sorry to kiss this place goodbye. Here you are. If you need anything, just ask.”
She dropped her dressing case and sank onto thenarrowberth. The blanket smelled of ship’s mold and wood, and very faintly of tar. The tears came then.
Chapter Seventeen
HannahWhittiercelebrated her eighteenth birthday atsea,wrapped in her cloak and sitting on the deck grating, watching the mountainous waves throw theBonny Jeanup and down its troughs. The other passengers were below, suffering through various levels of seasickness, and she knew the crew wondered at her endurance. She said nothing to enlighten them on her own late career with theRoyalNavy.
She eyed the lookout several times, wondering what they would think if she climbed the rigging and sat there. It was far above the deck and away from everyone—not that her mind would be any clearer for its distance from others. Even after a month at sea,she could not put consecutive thoughts together without hearing Daniel Spark’s carefully spaced words,“I do not love you.”She dreaded sleep, because it only meant the words repeated endlessly, the articulation so relentless that it woke her, shivering, into a night sweat.
Hannah stared out at the gray water, deckledwith white caps that marched in endless rows across the whole face of the ocean. I have learned so much since June, she thought. I can pick oakum, climba rigging, spy for ships, help patch broken bodies, and I discovered that I love a man’s touch. I have also learned that it may be entirely possible to die of heartbreak. She welcomed the idea, knowing it was far superior to living another sixty or seventy years without Daniel Spark. She bore him no ill will for his declaration. Obviously she had mistaken the depth of his feelings for her. He couldn’t have been more plain in his rejection of her love.
And now she was eighteen.“Happy birthday, Hannah Whittier,”she said. If she were home,she would have her birthday dinner served on the special red plate, and it would be all her favorite foods. She frowned. What was the mealshe used to like so much? She could not remember. Papa would honor her by reading the Bible verses that told of Hannah, beloved wife of Elkanah, and mother of Samuel.Beloved wife.“Oh, God, I cannot bear it,”she said, her voice loud. She looked around quickly, to be sure that no one heard, but her cry wascarriedaway by the wind that blew towardEngland.
She followed her usualpatternand did not go below until dinner, which she ate in silence,or pushed around her plate, depending on whether she remembered to tell herself to eat.She must have forgotten to remind herself that night because Captain Trask shook his head at her.“MissWhittier, you will waste away before we raiseBoston, if that is the best you can do.”
She managed a smile.“Oh, I am as healthy as a horse. I have it ongoodauthority.”
“Not if you continue your present course,”he argued.“And we have another month at sea.”
She went to her cabin then,grateful to close everyone out once more. Ordinarily she would go to sleep as soon as she could, hoping to outwit the nightmares. Sometimes it worked; other times she woke before light, her cheeks wet with tears. Tonight would be different, she told herself. She had planned a special event for her birthday.
Theletterfrom Daniel Spark had come just before theBonny Jeanprepared to tack fromPortsmouthHarbor. Someone pushed it under her door as she lay in the berth, staring with dull eyes at the deck above. She recognized Daniel’s precise handwriting, small and up and down from years of writing cramped log entries. She made no move to pick up the letter; several days passed before she did more than walk over it on her way to and from the main deck. When she finally retrieved theletter,she debated one entire evening whether to throw it overboard, then decided against it. That would require the effort of going on deck again, and she was weary. She tucked it in her dressing case under her clo and out of sight. Perhaps in years distant from this one she would look at the envelope and use it as a good lesson in not making mountains out of molehills,if she really needed any reminders. She knew she would never open it. That kind of pain went beyond anything she had the stomach for.
But as each day dissolved into another one like it, her curiosity grew. She felt anger at first, rage so strong that it left her shaken, when she considered that he felt it necessary to smite her again, this time with words on paper. This emotion was followed by sorrow that he thought her so dense that she needed further explanation. As her birthday neared, she decided she would read theletter,reasoning that it was impossible to feel any worse than she already did. Perhaps if she could begin to make fun of her own folly, she would recover eventually.
She took out the much-trampledletter andplaced it on her pillow, then turned away, her hands over her eyes,as she remembered hishead on her pillow once. After a few minutes, she took a deep breath, sat down in the berth, and picked up the letter. The wax seal was already shattered from all the times she had trod on it. She drew out theletterand held it until the cabin grew so dark that she had to light the lamp.
