Chapter Twenty-Five

Boston

Hannah smoothed the coverlet over the fever-racked body of Mrs. Godder and studied her sleeping face. She had been in the room fifteen minutes, but Mrs. Godder had not awakened. The nurse had taken advantage of Hannah’s arrival to run an errand, and it was quiet in Elias Parton’s rooms. The only sounds were the rasping breath of the sleeper and the rustle of Hannah’s frock as she shifted her position in the bedside chair.

The physician had left draughts for his patient, but he did not hold out hope for her recovery. He informed Hannah the draughts would make her comfortable, and an easing of discomfort might perhaps allow her to speak with Hannah before she died. He had advised Hannah to have a clergyman visit regularly, saying, “The case is best left in a parson’s hands now.”

Hannah was not entirely without hope Mrs. Godder could recover. She was as yet a fairly young woman and with proper care might fight her illness as Hannah herself had done. But that afternoon, the third day of Mrs. Godder’s being in Mr. Parton’s suite, Hannah had to admit to herself that her former guardian looked very ill indeed. If one could but get her to take some nourishment!

As Hannah was contemplating trying once again to introduce some soup to the unwilling patient when she awakened, Mrs. Godder opened her eyes and looked at her. She appeared more focused than the day before, and Hannah’s hopes rose once again.

“Mrs. Godder,” she whispered, “it is Hannah. Can you speak to me?”

The cracked lips moved with an effort. “Hannah?”

“Yes, it’s Hannah. Now that you’re awake, you must take your draught so the cough won’t return, and I beg you to allow me to feed you a bit of soup.”

“Yes.”

Hannah spooned the bitter draught into Mrs. Godder’s mouth and watched that she swallowed it. She then took a flask of soup from her reticule and gently fed her the thin concoction bit by bit.

“There!” Hannah exclaimed. “You’ve done very well!”

“Thank you. Hannah…I want to tell you…”

“Be quiet, dear. Later, when you’re stronger, you can tell me whatever you want.”

Mrs. Godder began to nod her acquiescence, but she suddenly opened her eyes wide and looked past Hannah to the open chamber door.

Hannah turned about. “What is it? Did you hear someone?”

Mrs. Godder settled back and pulled in a breath before speaking. “No one…but there’s danger, Hannah…”

“No, dear, there’s no danger. You’re in Mr. Elias Parton’s suite in the Charles Building. I dare say you’ve had an unpleasant dream.”

“Hannah, I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not dying. I’m going to make you well. I had this cough and fever myself a time ago, and I recovered.”

Hannah fussed about with the quilts for a few minutes, and Mrs. Godder’s eyes followed her.

“Hannah…come close…if whisper can speak more.”

“Can you not wait until you’re stronger? I’ve many questions to ask, but let’s wait a few days.”

“Tomorrow…come tomorrow…I’ll tell you…from the beginning…”

“Very well, if you promise to eat your soup for the nurse tonight. Do you promise me?”

“…yes, promise…Hannah, you would not be kind…if you knew all…”

“Quiet now. I must leave you, but I’ll be here tomorrow.”

The next afternoon, Hannah hurried to the Charles Building. She found the physician just leaving and the parson and nurse in attendance. After a few words with the physician, who seemed pleased with Mrs. Godder’s tenuous hold on life, Hannah turned to Mr. Gray, who was waiting to speak to her.

“Miss Winstead,” said the parson, “I’ve given the patient a great bundle of paper and quills. Apparently, she has something on her mind she wants to tell you, but I advised her to write rather than speak.” He took Hannah aside and continued in a low voice, “I believe Mrs. Godder is troubled in her conscience, and it’s highly important she relieve herself of the burden and make her peace with God.”

“Thank you for your kindness in bringing paper and pen to her,” Hannah replied. “I did not think of it myself, but it’s a fine idea to have her write, for her hand is stronger than her throat. She can do a bit every day.”

The parson took his leave, and Hannah gave the nurse coins and bade her go out and purchase hot soup for herself and her patient, as well as buns and loaves for all. Hannah made a writing desk for Mrs. Godder from a sturdy wooden tray. She lifted Mrs. Godder up and fitted pillows behind her so she could write. The woman’s eyes followed her, and Hannah could see tears on her hollow cheeks.

“There, dear. Now you can write, but you must not tire yourself. Just a bit every day until you’ve told me all you wish to tell. I’m curious about my past, as you can well imagine, but I’m not going to fatigue you with questions. You may write whatever you wish, and I shall be satisfied with it.”

“You are so like your father…in your face and hair…but your inner self is your mother…”

Hannah was instantly curious to hear more about her parents, but Mrs. Godder slowly took a quill in hand, dipped it unsteadily, and bent to her task of writing her story. Hannah took up a book and sat near her, and for an hour, there was no sound except the scratching of the pen point.

The nurse returned, and the patient took a little food before resuming her writing. Hannah would not give the writing things back to her until she had taken her entire bowl of soup, and even at that, insisted she stop after another half hour. Hannah then prepared to take her leave, promising to come again the next day.

Mrs. Godder pressed the packet of untidy sheets of paper into her hands. “Take these…important for you to know.”

Hannah thanked her and left the suite. Her heart was pounding with anticipation, and she quickly commandeered a cabriolet to take her back to the Wilson home. It was an unusual expense for her, but she could not rest until she was ensconced in her chamber and the precious sheets were spread before her.

After a bit of chat with Connard and Linetta, who were the only members of the family at home when she arrived, Hannah hurried to her chamber, settled herself in a comfortable wing chair, and opened the packet.

Dearest Hannah,

Your kindness to me makes me more ashamed than ever of the part I played in events of the past. Although I did not directly commit an evil against you and your family, I stood mutely by and watched it committed by another. But I must start at the beginning.

My name is not Godder; it’s Molly Lender. I was born in Chadwickson Prison, where my mother had been placed for indebtedness. I was ten when we left the prison, and by then I had learned every trick a girl learns in such a place to obtain bread and stay alive.

My education, if I may call it such, served me well for I became an actress. I could play any part and mimic any accent. I was in demand for roles calling for a snobbish high-born lady, for my command of the accent and ability to comport myself like a duchess were perfect.

When I was twenty years old, I was playing such a role in the Red Dog Theater in Chelsea. I was poor from spending all my earnings on my mother and brother, and I was tired of high-born men attempting to buy my favors as if I was a tart of the streets. I was ripe for a change, and Harry Peckham could see that from the first day we met.

Harry Peckham was an actor, and he was the best ever seen. His mannerisms and voice and everything about him could change from one minute to the next. He was a master of aristocratic roles and played opposite me, and pretty soon we were going about together.

Harry could be anything he wanted to be. He posed as a physician one day and boldly entered the home of a wealthy family and treated the daughter of the house for a woman’s ailment. He told me later he wanted to see her without her knickers, and indeed he got all her clothes off her for his examination.

He was always pulling such stunts and pranks. He didn’t have fear anywhere inside him.

When the show we were in closed, I wanted to make the rounds of the theaters to get more work, but Harry had other ideas.

“I’m sick of the life,” he told me. “I want to get out of London.”

We wandered down to the harbor one afternoon, and that’s where Harry got his big idea.

“I’m going to an island in the Caribbean Sea!” he announced, as we watched the ships bobbing at their moorings.

“The Caribbean Sea! But, Harry, what do you know about islands in the Caribbean Sea?”

“All I need to know,” he replied. “There’s money being made there in plantations and such.”

From that moment, he was captivated by his scheme, and he worried over it night and day like a cur with a bone. At first, he thought to pay his passage by entertaining the sailors on board a ship, but then his ideas blossomed like deadly nightshade.

“We’ll go as a lady and gentleman,” he declared one night.

“We?” I answered. “I’m not going to an island. Who would care for me ma?”

“Your lazy brother,” he replied. “Come on, Molly, do you want to die in the streets here, a beggar? What’s to happen when you get too old to play the good parts?”

I was a fool at that young age but not quite that big a fool. I looked him in the eye and said, “If we go on ship together, we go as man and wife.”

Harry didn’t blink an eye. “Let’s get wed then,” he said gaily, and we did.

Harry was a planner. He didn’t dive in like a duckling on a cold spring day; he worked things out in his mind. He had managed to learn to read and write, and so had I a bit, so we perused some tomes we stole from the shops. After a week of this, we knew where we wanted to go: Barbados.

Hannah slowly set down the sheets of paper and stared into the fire. For a few moments, she felt unable to move. Barbados! An island in the Caribbean…an island surrounded by azure water…as in her dream!

She rose and paced the elegant room, trying to gather her thoughts and make sense of the thousand ideas fluttering in her brain. She knew beyond a doubt what Mrs. Godder’s story would eventually reveal if she lived to write it all: She, Hannah Winstead, had not been born in London and then taken to India, but instead had been born in Barbados!

Just as Aaron had once said might happen, a memory of her childhood had been revealed in a dream. She had dreamt of the island because she had seen the island.

With such thoughts weighing on her, Hannah was very little fit for the chatter and high spirits of the Wilson family at dinner. Connard, shamelessly promoting a match between Elias Parton and Hannah, had invited him to dinner. Miss Whartling and her mother were there also, as well as a young brother and sister, friends of Lorelei and Linetta.

When the ladies left the dining room and settled in the parlor, Hannah was relieved to be able to sit quietly and dwell on her thoughts. Beatrice sat by her, and they spoke often enough to avoid raising notice in the others but little compared to the Wilson daughters and their mother. Hannah was grateful for Beatrice’s undemanding companionship.

When the gentlemen entered, Mr. Parton sat by her and inquired after Mrs. Godder. Hannah’s short answers surprised him, and he demanded to know if she herself were absolutely well.

“No, not quite well,” Hannah replied, sensing an opportunity to escape the party. She liked Elias Parton and was extremely grateful to him, but she wanted to be alone with her papers. She was eager to read the passage again and see if perhaps there might be more to be gleaned than she had first seen.

“I have a headache,” Hannah explained at his inquiring expression. “Will you be so kind as to excuse me?”

He rose and bowed. “Most certainly.”

Hannah made her excuse to the others and hurried upstairs. She prepared herself for bed and, placing a candle on the table, slipped under the counterpane with her precious manuscript. She was still holding it when she fell asleep, and it was next to her on the bed when morning arrived, the scattered sheets reflecting the sunlight streaming from the windows.

A week passed, a week during which Mrs. Godder spelled out her painful tale page by page. Hannah had hoped her former guardian would give each day’s outpouring to her to read, but she did not. Instead, Mrs. Godder folded the papers and, with shaking hands, placed them in the drawer of the chest next to her bed. Stifling her curiosity, Hannah continued her care and kindness to Mrs. Godder, for it was easy to see, whatever the tale she had to tell, she regretted her part in it deeply. The pages, Hannah noticed, were stained with tears.

On a damp Sunday evening as the fire hissed and spattered from rain making its way down the chimney, Mrs. Godder, to Hannah’s surprise, passed the sheaf of papers to her and whispered, “I’m nearly done, Hannah, dear. Take these. I fear I’m weaker and may not finish.”

Hannah set the pages on a table and then sat on the edge of the bed and looked into the worn face resting against the pillows. She took Mrs. Godder’s hand in hers and attempted to smile encouragingly.

“I know you regret many of the events of which you’ve been writing,” Hannah whispered gently. “If it will comfort you to have my forgiveness, Mrs. Godder, I give it to you. You were young when you first took me into your care…and young people can be heedless. I was so myself, if you remember.”

Mrs. Godder turned her staring, feverish eyes on Hannah. “Hannah…you don’t yet know all…when you do, forgiveness will not be possible. But it is God I must soon answer to. I only beg you—beware. There is danger!”

Hannah patted her hand and took leave, carrying the precious packet safely beneath her cloak. Mr. Parton was waiting for her in a gig, and she decided to share the written communications with him. He was astounded when she informed him of the week’s activity.

“I want to share the writings with you,” she replied, smiling at his look of surprise. “If you don’t object, let’s go to a tearoom where we can find a quiet corner. I want to read all the pages myself and to have you read them. I’m sorry to burden you yet again, but I don’t feel quite equal to reading this manuscript alone.”

Parton was only too happy to oblige. His curiosity was intense as he slapped the reins and guided his mother’s black mare through the city streets. He knew the city well, and soon they were seated in a quiet café. It was not quite proper, Hannah knew, for the two of them to sit in public together, but there would be no opportunity for a private talk at the Wilson home. She would have liked to confide in Mr. Wilson as well, but the family was caught up in the festivities attending Connard’s engagement, and Hannah thought it best to wait a time before speaking to him.

After Parton had ordered coffee and scones, Hannah quickly scanned the first sheet, which she had already read several times, then handed it to him and took up the second. In this manner, they read quietly on, their coffee growing cold as the manuscript absorbed them.