4
The next day was more of the same. Sitting beside Jane’s canopied bed, watching her struggle to breathe. After the doctor dropped by to check on her, Ren wanted to press him: What now? What next? Surely this couldn’t go on indefinitely. Surely Jane would turn a corner soon and revive, get well. Yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the doctor’s answer.
Tonight, he watched the Indian maidservant slip sugar water through Jane’s lips, massage her throat to get her to swallow, wipe the drips that rolled down her cheeks. She cared for Jane as if she were but a babe and not a grown woman, uncommonly devoted to her. She was a blessing to them, that woman, so quiet, so calm. Patience was her name, and patience was her gift.
There were other gifts, as well. Jane’s sister, Daphne, hadn’t left Orange Street. She stayed close to Jane’s bedside and slept in the spare bedroom to be available for the children.
Children.
Ren still couldn’t grasp the notion that he was a father. While what he had said to Daphne was true—that the oceans were large and ships were few—still, how could his letters have made their way to Jane, and so few of hers to him?
It wasn’t that fatherhood was out of his scope. He had a hope that raising a family was ahead for them.
Yet to be presented with two six-year-old children and told they belonged to him? That thought alone made him flounder. And in the very next moment his Jane, his darling Jane, collapsed like a rag doll onto that filthy dock. If he thought he had floundered by the news of fatherhood, his keel had run aground by Jane’s collapse.
Jane’s chest lifted as if she were suddenly drawing back in all the breath she had lost.
Breath.
He could see how she struggled to get the oxygen she needed into her lungs. It reminded him of the time he had nearly drowned when he’d fallen overboard, how his lungs had burned like fire within him, had felt close to exploding. Is that what Jane is feeling now?
Her lips had an increasingly husky blueish tinge to them, as did her fingernails. He reached out to take her hand in his, entwining his fingers through hers like the strands of a rope. She was always a tiny thing, his sweet Jane, yet she had such vitality, such determination. He remembered how her eyes would sparkle like diamonds when she had something to tell him.
He released her hand and sat back in the chair to stretch his legs. How well had they really known each other when they married? Hardly at all. Though born in Nantucket, Ren had signed on as cabin boy to a ship to accompany his father, a cooper, and never looked back. At that point, his mother, Angelica Foulger Macy, finally decided to return to the Bahamas to live with her elderly mother and her brother, as she had never felt she truly belonged to Nantucket and doubted she ever would, especially without a husband and child on land. She concluded she might see more of her husband and son passing through the Bahamas than she ever would in Nantucket.
For many years, Angelica had guessed correctly. Jeremiah purchased an old whaling schooner, the Endeavour, and appointed himself captain, with his able son serving as first mate. They made frequent passes through the Bahamas, as the whales they chased were minke whales, plentiful in the Atlantic. And then an epidemic swept through the islands of the Bahamas, brought in from the ships, one that was particularly vicious for the vulnerable natives. Angelica was half native.
After burying his wife, Jeremiah Macy felt that perhaps he’d had enough of the seagoing life, that it had taken too much from him. He said he was returning to Nantucket to pick up where he’d left off, as cooper. Ren, he announced, was ready to captain the Endeavour on his own. “After all, you’ve been more of a captain for this old hulk than I’ve been.”
It was a rare word of encouragement from his father but for one thing: Ren did not have the kind of capital needed to outfit a ship for a whaling voyage. Nor did Jeremiah, for the Endeavour had cost him most of his life savings, and Angelica’s extravagant taste for fine living had taken the rest. Guilt ridden that he had loved the sea even more than he had loved his wife, Jeremiah had never begrudged her a cent.
And that was where the partnership with Tristram began. As third cousins once removed, both only children, the two boys had shared a special kinship over the years. Once or twice, Tristram had signed on as crew for the Endeavour, and proved his seaworthiness to Ren and Jeremiah. Trist had a persuasive way with people, and Ren knew he could muster investors to back the ship. Jeremiah was skeptical; he thought Tristram had a tendency to sail too close to the wind, defying rules and pushing limits. Ren felt his father had a bias against all shipping agents and considered them to be rabid extortionists. But Tristram had already built a reputation as a shipping agent, connecting investors to syndicates—owners of ships. So he went forward and proposed the idea of a business partnership. It took no longer than a half second for Tristram to agree and thrust out his hand. “Consider it done, cousin!”
Ren had wanted to seek out an experienced captain for this first voyage, despite his father’s intent to pass it into his hands, for he had not the confidence that the investors would overlook his casual religiosity. He understood the thought process of Friends, and suspected they would only provide funds to outfit a ship if a devout Quaker was at the helm. But Tristram was the one who nixed that notion. “Thee is more able than any Nantucket captain, cousin. Watch and see. The investors will be the judge. They care only about the safe and generous return on their investment.” He patted Ren on the back. “Watch and see.”
Tristram called that one correctly. Investors heartily backed the Endeavour with Ren serving as captain. Such assurance gave Ren the confidence he needed, for it was no small thing to captain a ship for the first time. He was only twenty-six years old when he assumed command.
And then Tristram happened to point out a stunning young Quaker woman named Jane Coffin to Ren, a woman with the kind of beauty that made men stop to stare at her. Trist was an earnest and devout Quaker; Ren, if generously assessed, would be considered a lapsed Quaker. His father, Jeremiah, had become spectacularly unconcerned about conforming to Friends’ expectations after seeing how his wife, because of her Bahamian blood, had been excluded from Nantucket society. He raised Ren with a heightened sensitivity to Quaker hypocrisy, and they saw plenty of it among sailors on the sea.
Yet Ren had something of his mother in him too, apart from olive skin, dark hair and eyes. Angelica’s spirituality ran deep, an unwavering belief that God had a purpose for each life, and she had been influenced by the Friends to seek the Light within each individual. His parents’ separate outlooks shaped Ren’s personality. He was tolerant and accepting of others, but only after they proved themselves to him.
Jane’s legs twitched, startling him out of his musings, and he sat up in the chair.
Darling Jane.
When he’d first laid eyes on her, he remembered feeling as if the axis of his world tilted a few degrees. He’d always heard of the beauty of Nantucket lasses, but she was like a delicate orchid among common daisies. He was a changed man, everything looked different. She was the one for him, the woman he’d been waiting to meet. As soon as possible, he insisted Tristram introduce them. From that day on, he pursued Jane the way he pursued whales—singlemindedly. He spent every possible moment with her when he wasn’t at work preparing the Endeavour to make voyage. As the day of departure loomed large, he knew he could not leave this island without knowing Jane would be waiting for him when he returned. He asked Jane to marry him, to be his wife, she said yes without any hesitation. But there was a serious glitch. Lillian Coffin, Jane’s mother. She would not allow the marriage, not with Ren’s poor standing, and threatened to disown her daughter. Despite her mother’s firm resolution, Ren convinced Jane to sail to Boston to elope.
When they returned to Nantucket, Jane’s belongings were packed and deposited at Tristram’s loft. By day’s end, she’d been read out of Meeting for marrying a lapsed Quaker. It was all her mother’s doing.
He would never forget the hurt in Jane’s eyes; it was palpable. It made him realize what he had taken from Jane when he persuaded her to elope with him. Her life had been ordered and without surprise, and he had thoroughly disrupted her. He had swept her off her feet, thereby causing a wedge between her and her mother, and her church.
So Ren scraped together everything he could to purchase the Orange Street house for her to live in, a substantial cost, as her mother refused to allow her to return to her childhood home. He had a hope that Jane’s father, a reasonable and sympathetic man, would have influence to soften the Friends’ stance, if not Lillian’s.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He had assumed incorrectly. Her father, with his great flaw of adultery, had no such influence among the pious Friends.
The whistle of a teakettle pierced the silence. Ah, a cup of tea was just the thing he needed right now. He tucked a lock of hair behind Jane’s ear and left her for a brief moment.
When he came into the kitchen, he saw Henry was at the table, sitting with Daphne. “Why is the boy still up?”
“He had a nightmare, so I thought a cup of warm milk might help.”
“He should be asleep.”
Daphne stiffened. “And he will. But first he is having some warm milk.” She frowned at him. “He is worried about his mother. He needed some reassurance.”
“He needs sleep.” He tipped his head toward Henry like a schoolteacher. “Off with you, then, lad.”
Henry jumped out of his chair and bolted through the kitchen door.
“Too harsh, Ren. Thy voice—it can sound too harsh.”
Ren glanced at her, then watched the boy go. He set his elbows on the tabletop and rubbed his temples. He dropped his hands. “I . . . I will be more mindful of the tone of my voice.” The frown left her face, which relieved him. “I just came down to get a cup of tea. I’ll head back up to stay with Jane.”
“I will take a turn. Get some rest. Thee must be exhausted.”
“And you? You must be just as tired.” Just as frightened, just as uncertain of what the future held. “I don’t know how long this will go on. Dr. Mitchell had no answers for me.” He’s a quack, Ren thought. A charlatan. He was convinced the doctor had provided the tincture for Jane, despite his protests.
“Tomorrow, I plan to take the children out for the morning. They don’t need to be waiting vigil.”
He looked up in alarm. Already, he’d grown dependent on Daphne’s presence. “What about Jane? I must be off to the countinghouse in the morn, as soon as it opens.”
“Patience will be here. And Jane has many friends. They have been stopping by all day, offering to help.”
“Is there any way to convince your mother to come and stay by Jane’s side for a spell?”
“I’ll send word. I don’t think she understands that Jane is . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Ren finished her thought. “That the situation is as grave as it is.”
She nodded. “Jane was always far more accommodating to Mother than I. She carefully avoided aggravating Mother.”
“I suppose Jane felt thee was worth the aggravation.” Daphne smiled. “Tomorrow is covered. Jane will be attended to.”
“Assuming there is a tomorrow for Jane.” As soon as Ren said the words, he wished them back. Daphne’s eyes took on a glassy sheen, and he was sorry he voiced aloud the fear they both kept right under the surface.
“There is milk warmed by the fire. I will be in Jane’s chamber if thee needs me.” At the doorjamb, she turned. “Get some sleep, Ren. Jane needs thee to be rested for when she returns to us.”
He gave her a weak smile, and nodded. “Thank you, Daphne.” Though by the time he said it, she had gone.
The following morning, a dank fog settled over Nantucket. Normally, the changeable island weather didn’t affect Daphne’s mood, not the way it did with her mother. This morning, it added to her unsettled mind.
It didn’t feel quite right to leave the house with Jane so ill. Yet it didn’t feel right to stay at Orange Street either and postpone yet another morning of the Cent School. Nantucket mothers counted on them, and Daphne knew Jane would be upset, after she recovered, to hear that so many lives were disrupted because of her illness.
Patience assured her that she would not leave Jane’s side, that she would send word if there was any change, any at all. Daphne had complete confidence in Patience, but as she walked away from Orange Street with Henry and Hitty, hurrying toward Centre Street, she couldn’t shake a sense of dread. But this school of Jane’s, it was her mission, and thus Daphne would forge on.
In spite of the damp, gray day, Reynolds Macy threw his cloak over his shoulders, relishing that his clothes were dry and clean after six years of being splattered by ceaseless waves.
As he strode toward the countinghouse at the foot of Main Street, the sound of his boots on the streets magnified like a beating drum. Almost at each half beat came the sound of Abraham’s boots, following behind Ren.
Nantucket town had changed much throughout Ren’s thirty-one years. When he was a boy, it had been little more than a cluster of shops and houses, its few streets wide and laid out in a grid oriented from the harbor.
The shops were now mostly on Main Street, and the variety dazzled him, with several groceries, two butchers, a cobbler, a barber, a dentist, a milliner, and even a bookstore. The street looked somewhat improved—wider and less rutted, though planks had been laid in front of the shop for pedestrians, so he assumed the street was still prone to mud when it rained. When, he wondered again, would it ever get cobbled?
There was also more traffic: horse-led buggies and wagons heading their way, or passing them in the opposite direction to head toward the tiny village of Siasconset. Ren maintained a strained smile as he passed by Friends, women peering at him from under their bonnet rims, men from their black broad-brimmed hats. Vaguely, he remembered them. He tried to mask what he was thinking: Save your false smiles and welcomes and tell me instead, did you treat m’ Jane as you treated m’ own mother? Did you turn away from her because she made a choice that didn’t line up with the Friends’ rigid rules?
When Ren’s hand touched the door latch of the brick countinghouse, Abraham stopped. “I will be waiting here, Captain.”
Ren nodded.
Inside, the place swarmed with activity as it always did after a whaler sailed into harbor. Ren exchanged greetings with clerks as he made his way to the office of William Rotch, who oversaw the entire countinghouse. Rotch was a jovial, mutton-chopped man, but Ren never fully trusted his good humor. Lurking just under the laugh lay a shrewd businessman.
When Ren appeared at his doorjamb, Rotch hurried forward with hand extended. “How good to see thee again, Reynolds. Come in, come in. Sit . . . over there.” He motioned to a spare chair under the window, waiting until Ren sat down before easing himself into a leather chair beside an enormous rolltop desk. “’Twas quite a goodly haul the Endeavour brought in.”
“Aye. I would’ve preferred it to be shorter in duration, but I cannot complain about the deep hold.”
“Hardly a whale must be left in the ocean.”
“Oh, I think I left a few for some other Nantucket ships.”
A frown settled over Rotch’s features, and he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. He scowled thoughtfully at the floor before looking up.
“I received word there is a problem with distributing lays to my crew.”
“Not a problem, exactly. A dilemma, perhaps. Thy crew has come to collect their lays.”
“Aye.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot distribute the lays.”
Ren was stunned. “The Endeavour brought in a full load. Why wouldn’t you give my men their fair share?”
“Because of the debt thee has incurred.”
“For the new ship that thy partner has ordered. The Endeavour’s cargo was offered as collateral, a down payment on the ship.” Ren opened his mouth to respond, but Rotch got there first. “Surely, thee knew.”
“There must be a misunderstanding. Tristram has told me nothing of this.”
Rotch shook his head. “There is no misunderstanding.”
Ren thumped a fist on his knee. “I signed no such agreement.”
“Thee didn’t have to. Thy cousin signed in thy absence. He showed me the power of attorney he held in thy stead. I will let thee and thy cousin work that out.” Rotch leaned forward, hands clasped. “In the meantime, how does thee plan to pay thy crew? All day yesterday, they arrived at the countinghouse to collect their lay. We did not know what thee wanted us to tell them.”
“I will have to speak to Tristram first.” Ren hoped his cousin had a plan, because he had no idea what to do.
Daphne set the children to work on their letters at the long table in the keeping room on Centre Street, in a small house that belonged to Jane, a wedding gift from their father. She’d survived her first disaster of the morning: little Johnny Swain had come to the Cent School with a penny in his mouth, forgot to give it to her when he arrived, and nearly choked when he took a swig of water from the scooper.
How many times had Jane reminded Johnny’s mother to put his penny in his pocket? Dozens! And yet she never failed to pop a penny under his tongue as she sent him out the door each morning.
Last year, Jane had started this school for young children, to not only mind children while their mothers were at work, but to also educate them. The majority of their fathers were somewhere at sea, crewing on whaling ships. It was a concept borrowed from England, the Cent School, and it suited Jane well. Daphne had come alongside Jane to help start it, then, intrigued, she stayed, taking part in each day’s activities.
Daphne saw Johnny Swain staring out the window. To her surprise, there stood Ren, a quizzical expression on his face. Standing behind him was the Negro sailor. What was his name? Something Old Testament-y. Before she could recall, her mind traveled to Jane’s condition. She flew to the door and opened it. “Ren! What’s wrong? Has Jane woken?”
Ren seemed startled by Daphne’s questions. “I haven’t heard anything. I’ve just come from the countinghouse. Have you heard anything more?”
“Nay. Patience promised she would send word if there is a change.”
Ren peered through the window. “What is going on here? Why are my children in this house?”
“I told thee. Last night, I explained that I was taking the children to the Centre Street house.”
Ren stepped over the threshold of the open door. Abraham remained outside, hands clasped behind his back. “What is this?”
“This is Jane’s Cent School. She started it a year back. Perhaps longer.”
“Why?”
“Why did I bring the children? I thought it would be helpful, to everyone. To give thee time to sort out the countinghouse. To keep the house quiet, and to give the children some routine. They’re accustomed to being here. We’ll be back to the house by midday.”
He shook his head. “Nay, nay. I meant . . . why did Jane start . . . ,” he shot a look beyond her, “. . . this?”
“The Cent School?” Daphne took in a deep breath. “Our father had given her this house as his inheritance . . . and she decided to use it to start a school.”
“But why, Daphne? Why did she do this?”
Oh. That. She worked her palms together nervously. “Additional income . . . was required.”
“What do you mean?” Ren rocked back on his heels. “Are you saying that Jane did not have a subsidy to draw on?”
Daphne’s mind moved quickly. “I’d best let Tristram give thee more details.” She glanced at the children. Hitty was underneath the table, tying Johnny’s shoelaces together so that he would trip over his own feet. It was her favorite trick, and Johnny, as usual, was completely unaware of the mischief. “I bid thee good day, as I should give my attention to the children.” She paused. “Thee is welcome to stay.”
Ren, obviously disconcerted, backed out of the doorway. “I should . . . I must be off.” He nodded and waved his hand, as if giving her permission to carry on.
Always the sea captain, that Reynolds Macy.
As Daphne bent down to pull Hitty out from under the table, she thanked God that Ren chose to leave the house and did not persist with questions. She had no desire to remain in this uncomfortable spot—between two cousins, two business partners. If Ren had asked, she would have expressed her own skepticism over Tristram’s ambitious project. Jane had given Tristram her blessing to commission the building of the new ship, but to Daphne it was a high-stake gamble, bargaining the Endeavour’s haul against the new ship.
It was an argument never fully resolved with Tristram. He had accused Daphne of not having faith in his judgment, not the way Jane did. And what could she say to that? There was some truth in it.
She bent slightly to nudge Hitty to go sit in her chair. As she straightened up, she saw Ren still standing in the middle of Centre Street, as if he wasn’t quite sure which direction to go. Then, the black sailor—Abraham! the name popped into her mind—said something as he lifted his hand to point toward Main Street and Ren snapped into action.
It was a surreal moment. The bold and determined Captain Reynolds Macy, gently shepherded along by a lowly black sailor.