All was ready. Time’s hourglass stood drained and hollow-eyed, as blind to the future before her as Verity was. The days of cleaning and sewing, sorting and packing, had consumed every hour, every energy, every thought. But Verity had reserved this last evening to say farewell. She would allow nothing to rob her of it and no one to share in it. The few times she had ventured forth on errands of necessity she had been stung by the coldness of her neighbors. Now that the news was out, now that the Reverend Seabury had purchased the house from her mother and everyone knew of their terrible shame, all the pettiness and meanness that sometimes seems hidden in people had come to the surface with a vengeance that unnerved her.
Verity did her best to avoid confrontations of any kind. Not so Judith, of course. She was unabashed when friends appeared at her door demanding some book or household item they claimed to have loaned to her or her husband. She gave up all such belongings gracefully, even offering precious mementos of the dead minister to parishioners who she knew had particularly loved him and would cherish such things. She did not complain when the local grocer seemed suddenly out of her favorite meats and spices, things he had stocked especially for her before. She was quiescent when the blacksmith charged her more than anyone else for services that he was accustomed to discounting for the minister’s household. She went her rounds, serene and unruffled as an angel, and Leah traipsed by her side, indulging in tearful farewells of old school friends and chums.
Verity was outraged when she heard her mother announce her intention to visit one particularly odious old lady.
“Mother, why do you submit yourself to the indignity of it?” she demanded in her frustration.
“I do as my Anthony would have me do, Verity. I represent him, especially among these people. I try never to forget that.”
Her answer silenced Verity, who responded by punishing herself in turn with her own duty. She would not flinch. If she were to be martyr to her mother’s life, she would be so completely. At the end of each long, exhausting day she took the Book of Mormon her mother had given her down from its shelf and read at least one chapter, no matter how heavy with sleep her eyelids grew. At first she read woodenly, for duty’s sake only, and the words were mere one-dimensional letters printed on a white page. Gradually, without realizing it, the content began to penetrate her consciousness. Both her parents had taught her to be strictly honest and fair, so she admitted grudgingly, to herself only, that the book contained much of interest, if only as a history. She did not want to enjoy it; she did not want to find anything of merit therein. The fact that she was doing so disturbed her greatly. This was just one more trap, one more means of alienating her from the sweet life she wished to live.
But this last night she meant to wallow in her misery and pain. She meant to soak up, one last time, each sound, sight, and sensation that was dear to her heart. Such an exercise could be naught but agony, and she both dreaded and, in some perverse way, welcomed it.
She took the Long Path through the Common. The elms were heavy with their new spring foliage. Through the tender grass at their feet, gray squirrels ran in short starts and stops, chattering to no one in particular and glancing over their shoulders nervously to see if danger was near.
The Peanut Man was still shuffling his way across the worn cobbles. Verity bought a bag from him and scattered the contents for the squirrels to enjoy. The air was sweet to her nostrils, and a gentle silence sifted down from the sky to envelop her in its peace. She walked past the spot where it was rumored that a beautiful murderess had once been hanged. She had had the effrontery to appear before her executioner in a lovely white gown, and to bow and smile to the cold men who welcomed her doom. Verity felt a bit like the unknown woman as she walked through the still twilight, condemned to a fate that would wrench every bit of courage from her being and lay bare her heart.
She reached the public gardens and spent long, pleasant moments among the purple iris and yellow buttercups and the patches of pale blue forget-me-nots. A low, gnarled hawthorn tree spread a cloud of white blossoms beside the path, and an evening thrush sang sweetly from its branches. In the whole wide world there could be no city more lovely than Boston! Where else but here did the spirit of America breathe from every brick, every stone, every tree? Verity sighed as the weight of her grief trembled through her, like the breath of the wind over the tender spears of new grass. No more lectures in Faneuil Hall, which John Adams had named “the Cradle of Liberty.” No more plays, nights of make-believe and magic, at the Boston Theatre, with its circular staircase nine feet in width and the glitter of lights and richly dressed ladies. No afternoon teas at the Athenaeum, with bouillon, cheese sandwiches, and sweet crackers for only three cents. No picnics under the great elm that rose sixty-five feet above them and spread out to become its own sky. And no summer outings on Long Island, with the lighthouse in view and the rocks of Nix’s Mate, where it was said a captain was murdered by his wife and buried in the shallow soil of that lonely island, so close to the harbor that would have meant home and safety to him. Home and safety. The harbor of Boston that would be haven to her no more.
Verity’s feet moved slowly as she approached the last stop on her pilgrimage. King’s Chapel looked stolid and severe in the gray glow. No signs of life here, no movement, no shadow. She was grateful for that. She slipped through the gate to the little path that ran by the side of the chapel. Governor John Winthrop was buried here, as well as many other great men. But close by the path was the humble stone marker of Elizabeth Pain, who had worn a scarlet A on her breast. She had loved her minister, and he had returned her love. She bore him a child outside of wedlock, and all her long life her pious neighbors had forced her to wear the scarlet letter of shame.
Verity touched the cool stone with her fingertips. “Good-bye,” she said softly. “Your life is done. You are free of it now, whatever its sorrows, whatever its pains. You bore yours well, I know you did. I only pray that I can.” She raised her eyes to seek the grave of Mary Chilton, the first woman to step from the Mayflower onto New England soil.
Oh, Father, she cried in her heart, I leave you in good company, I know. But it is a sore thing for your daughter to be torn from your side. She stumbled toward the slight rise of ground where her father was buried. She was crying openly now, and past caring. The silence seemed loud to her, with a terrible, unvoiced lamenting that shivered along her spine and made her feet feel like dead weights as she moved among the tall, unmown grass. At last she dropped clumsily to her knees and pressed her forehead against the unyielding stone.
“Oh, Father,” she moaned. “How can I do this thing? How can I do it?”
As she knelt there on the ground, chilled by the damp and the shadows within her heart, it seemed the last vestiges of her girlhood dropped away. She remembered the day she had boasted to Millie that she would not give in this time. But she knew now that nothing in life was as simple as that. She was beginning to see with the clarity of a woman’s gaze, whether she wished to or not. She closed her eyes and drew into her the comfort and peace of the place. The conviction came strongly that this all belonged to her; she could take it all with her wherever she went. She need not be bereft as long as memory was her comforter and faith was her guide.
When Verity rose at last her eyes were dry and there was enough peace in her heart to allow her to walk home free from the terrible pain that had gripped her before. Home. The word would mean something different to her from this day forward, and for the rest of her life.
They left by sea. It was the sea that would bear them away on her breast. There would be a long overland journey to follow, but Millie thought it fitting that the ocean should part them. It had ever been thus in her life.
A terrible loneliness encased her as the time of departure drew near. It seemed to eat away her insides, leaving a hollow feeling similar to the emptiness she had felt when her mother died. She tried to chide herself, talk herself out of it. What were these people to her? Acquaintances of a few years only. She’d had a life of her own before them; she could have one again. Such friendships as theirs were a fleeting blessing, not a stable feature of life one could count on continuing indefinitely. Actually, as she well knew, most of the best things in life were fleeting and hard to lay hold of. Nothing in life ever continued unchanged.
With such gloomy thoughts crowding her mind she stood on India Wharf, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as well as with the glare of the sun on the water. Leah clung to her hand, and the realization struck her suddenly that the girl was afraid, truly so. She gave the small, damp fingers a squeeze.
“Don’t worry, Leah. Your mother will take good care of you, and you have Verity. All will turn out well in the end.” The sound of her voice saying the words gave them a weight of reality she had not afforded them before.
“Come, Miss Thatcher. All is ready for you ladies to board. Take my arm, and I’ll help you.”
Edgar Gray had come up behind them. Millie glowered at him from beneath her bonnet, but he didn’t notice. His large, expressive eyes were filled with an obvious tenderness as he took the hand Leah offered him.
“Good-bye, Millie, good-bye!” Leah kissed her hand to her friend, and her eyes filled with tears as she clung to the large-framed Elder Gray and hurried toward the ship.
“You will write, as you promised, Millie?” Verity’s voice revealed the tight control she struggled to maintain, but her hand trembled visibly as she placed it on Millie’s arm. “Sisters of spirit,” Verity whispered.
Millie nodded. “I shall never forget,” she said, tears brimming her eyes now. “I shall never care for you less than I do at this moment, no matter how many years pass between us.”
“Time and distance cannot alter our affection for one another,” Verity echoed. “And in letters we’ll share the hopes and longings of our spirits, as we have these past years.” Her eyes were wet and shining, but she went on bravely. “And, Millie dear, if you become altogether too lonely in Gloucester, will you come to us? Promise?”
Millie nodded again. Verity gathered her into her arms and held her fiercely a moment. Then she released her, turned, and walked resolutely toward the ship. Millie did not wait to see her friend board, to watch her become a small shape among many shapes crowding the decks. She had experienced too many such leave-takings. She turned and worked her way through the press of people, carts, and animals until she was free of them all and only the salt air, strong in her nostrils, remained with her. She fled, as from the phantoms of every fear and suffering she had ever felt in her life. All was over. They were gone. Standing and staring after them with burning eyes would not change things one bit. Her own bags were packed and ready. She would catch the train to Gloucester and be home within hours. Time enough then to think and plan. Time enough then to grieve.
On board the vessel, Verity did the same thing. She refused to stand on deck, staring pathetically out at the sea of faces that stared back at her. All was past now. Boston was forever behind them. She could envision no future, and the here and now was so distasteful, so precarious, that she must take it one breath at a time or be overwhelmed by it.
She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder and lifted her eyes reluctantly to meet her warm, steady gaze.
“This is more of a beginning than you know, dear heart. Remember what your father always said? ‘God is nothing more to us than we allow him to be.’ ” She reached out suddenly and clasped Verity’s hand with a pressure that ached. “He must be our all now, Verity. God must mean all to us now.”
Verity closed her eyes and fashioned her mother’s words into a prayer in her heart.