The Navigator—Chapter 1
January 1841
Of course you can do this, Eleanor Prentiss.
Ellen gritted her teeth and then forced a smile, determined to succeed in this as she had with every other challenge.
“What a lovely hat, Mrs. North.”
The older woman spun around. Delight danced across her mouth—until she recognized the speaker.
“Thank you, Miss Prentiss.” Her voice held the sharp edge of disappointment.
Ellen knew the dozen other people at Henry’s oyster stand were listening intently, even as they pretended not to. Listening and judging.
Her dress. The contents of her market basket. Her being there at all. ‘Oh how the high and mighty have fallen,’ they must be thinking.
It would take time, Mama had reminded her. She wasn’t hated, merely disliked. And she should be grateful for that much after twenty-six years of shunning polite society to chase salty adventures as if she thought herself a man.
But dislike she could come back from.
Ellen swallowed and tried again. “Such a pretty color of plum velvet. Does it come from Boston?”
Mrs. North glanced around, seeming to wrestle with whether to engage with the young lady who took after her father overmuch—a criticism Ellen had always felt as a compliment.
After a long sigh, Mrs. North seemed to settle on pity. “Your mother should teach you that a lady would call it a bonnet.”
The heat rose in Ellen’s cheeks. Bonnet! Of course she knew that. Had she really called it a hat? Thank goodness she’d not praised her sou’wester.
She heard Mama’s voice in her head, reciting from The Virtuous Wife in a last ditch attempt to win Ellen a husband.
Be ever agreeable.
“I thank you for your valuable instruction, Mrs. North.”
Across the square, a southerly wind spurred the skeleton elms into a somber dance before sweeping down the hillside, snapping Saturday market awnings, flogging neckties, and flattening the weary grass between the granite outcroppings.
As it approached the oyster stand, Ellen burrowed her face into her shoulder, but the gust discovered the thin gap between her wool skirt and button boots, burrowing straight through her pantalettes to give her legs an icy shock.
Still, she welcomed the pain, found that it fixed her inside her body again, into the world, after so many months adrift.
Precisely six.
The Marblehead Oil & Candle sign swung on its fastenings, creaking loudly. A solid Force Seven blow, Ellen calculated, pulling a milky blanket of cirrostratus clouds across the sun. When the wind shifted, it would do so with teeth.
The market day haggling turned to skyward glances as the fishwives bundled their salt cod, and the daguerreotype man from New Bedford leaned over his specimens. But Ellen knew that while a hard nor’easter was on its way, the rippled wrack rode too high to carry rain today.
More’s the pity.
“The bonnet is from Le Havre,” Mrs. North said. “A gift from my son.”
Ellen choked down a lump of jealousy, remembering how impatient she’d once been to reach her envisioned future, where she’d sail triumphantly into ports like Le Havre, Valparaíso, the Sandwich Islands, and everywhere else on the map. She’d never imagined her farthest voyage would end up being to Baltimore—nor that her actual future would trap her inside a land-based cage.
She tried to recall the name of Mrs. North’s son but drew a blank. One of the boys that used to spit at her and Perk, though. She was sure of that much.
“Well, your son has wonderful taste.”
Ellen wondered whether Mrs. North had attached the yellow silk pansy with her long-dead husband in mind. Pansy for remembrance. Yellow for a memory that brought comfort, not despair.
Ellen tried to turn another wave of envy into hope, but couldn’t imagine ever being able to replace the stark white lily on her own mourning hat.
Bonnet.
One last errand, though, and Ellen could return to the safety of the study. To the quiet of rolled charts, the warmth of lamplight, and the fading smell of his pipe tobacco. She could settle into his worn leather chair and watch the moods of the sea from the window, measuring the relative positions of Eastern Point and Baker’s Light until her mind filled with nothing but angles and sines and cosines.
Mama had been right about one thing. The body remembers.
While Ellen still felt disassociated from everything outside the house after six months of isolation, her feet had found the steps to the market without trouble. Her mouth had formed words.
Each startling familiarity had brought a small astonishment. The cobbles still began at State Street. Mrs. Gannon still kept her daily vigil on the roof—same black shawl, same stare at the horizon, as if looking hard enough might conjure back her husband and son. Market Square was still wedged against the hillside, and shoppers still carried on as if nothing had irrevocably changed.
At least until they saw Ellen.
What Mama hadn’t warned her was that each pitying glance, each well-intentioned sigh, would eat away her fortitude until she felt as fragile as Murano glass all over again.
She caught herself replaying the sequence of events for the millionth time, trying to change the outcome. If Mama hadn’t taken ill. If Ellen hadn’t stayed home to care for Mathilda. If she’d been on that last voyage to the Carolinas . . .
A fuzzy shadow moved across the ground, drawing her attention from her grief. It weaved between the thicket of boots and skirts until it paused beside Ellen’s black wool coat. On closer examination, the form proved to be a curious Newfoundland pup exploring the mud, testing the slick ooze with each oversized paw as if surprised by how it stuck.
Mama had tried to interest her in town gossip, and she remembered some tidbit that included Henry the Goat’s new dog. What had Mama called him? The adorable creature at her feet was lamp black but for a white cross on his forehead, small enough Ellen could have tucked him right in her basket between the crookneck squash and skein of yarn.
Fluke. That was it.
He fixed her with a playful look, bright-pink tongue hanging so merrily Ellen almost managed a smile.
It would have been her first in six months.
She felt a quiver of her spirit renew. A seed buried deep, just beginning to stretch under the ice, waiting for the thaw to send up fragile buds.
But the thought of spring flowers reminded her too quickly of the forget-me-not carefully pressed into the book by her bed, and she bit the inside of her cheek. That was a different memory. Ten years on, and still not nearly ready for a yellow pansy.
“—I’ll be late, Father. You’ll have to finish this yourself—”
That mockingbird voice.
Ellen made the mistake of looking up. Euphemia Bartlett had weaseled in front of her in line, wearing a peacock-blue silk dress—strangely coatless despite the frosty air. Next to her stood the lanky figure of the pastor. Why in heaven’s name was he out doing the market shopping instead of his wife?
Ellen re-tucked her chin but wasn’t quick enough to avoid Henry’s observant eye.
“Miss Prentiss! Is that you?” His voice boomed from behind his table, causing every head to turn.
Oh God, Henry. Not now.
“So glad to see you out. I was so awfully sorry to hear about Captain Prentiss.”
Ellen managed a weak nod and trained her eyes back to the ground, feebly trying to hide.
“Why, what a timely surprise.” Euphemia’s claws grabbed Ellen’s arm. “We’ve missed you so at church, dear.”
As always, bald-faced lies came as naturally to her as breathing.
Ellen drew her arm away, but braved a direct glance at Euphemia’s pitch-colored eyes, at the grin that slithered across her face.
“The great lady navigator has finally set down her charts and joined us common folk on market day.”
Euphemia’s arrows had always been ruthless, but this one was also well-aimed. Ellen cringed at how many times she’d scoffed at Mama for asking her to help with the sweeping or baking or church socials, preferring to retreat into her maps and calculations instead.
“I’m honored to be doing such important work,” Ellen said.
“I must say, it’s brave of you to venture out today,” Euphemia said. “You’ve heard the news then?”
Learn there is sometimes an adaptedness in silence, which gives a charm to conversation.
Ellen forced herself to maintain control of her expression, clutching the wicker-basket handle until the fibers groaned as she waited for an explanation. Then waited longer. As more heads turned, she knew she was merely being stubborn. There was only one way out of this squall, and that was through it.
“What news is that, Miss Bartlett?”
A surprised blink, then Euphemia’s grin stretched halfway to New Bedford. “Why, today’s arrival,” she said, baiting.
Euphemia’s skin had turned an angry pink in the cold, despite all the whitening creams, even as her face remained a perfect rock.
“Oh?” Ellen wondered if they were still children, trading petty jealousies. She grew bored and congratulated herself for not getting riled up. It seemed a good sign, like a tide pool refilling after an ebb.
Euphemia pursed her conniving mouth for what seemed like a full minute. “Well then. Go on, guess,” she said, giving no quarter to the hollow ache of grief.
“Goodness,” Ellen finally said. “Is it the ribbon maker up from Boston again?”
“Not even close,” Euphemia answered.
“A music teacher from Providence?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
She seemed genuinely surprised and Ellen glimpsed what might almost have been pity as Euphemia’s eye twitched in the cold.
“I can’t be late,” was all she said, though. And, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
She turned away with enough drama to spin her skirts into a peacock-blue eddy, then strode down the hill.
But not before three more words sliced through the air.
“If you dare.”
The echo of the old taunt most certainly intended: How dare you?
Ellen had forgotten how menacing laughter could sound. She cursed herself for wondering, despite her every resolve, what had caused Euphemia to dress in her finest silks in the middle of January.
When she finally looked down, Fluke’s curious nose had drawn him to the Bartlett’s basket on the ground, and Ellen soon spied the reason for his interest. A thick lamb shank lay exposed among the turnips and salt cod. A strategic error that Mrs. Bartlett would never have made.
She watched the dog’s careful approach, and this time she did crack a smile.
Get it, Fluke.
“One pottle or two, Miss Prentiss? I still owe you from the summer, you know.”
It was as if Henry knew her worn reticule was down to just a picayune and two pennies. She was sure he meant well, peering at her over the crowd, but she felt the pity in her old friend’s fictional credit, and his kindness burned.
She’d always emphatically believed she’d be the one woman in Marblehead to lead an independent life. She’d studied diligently, built sought-after skills, and earned what she’d imagined would be a lifelong position: navigator of the Californian.
But the past six months had taught her just how much her achievements had owed to Captain Papa’s open mind as well. She sent a hundred and eighty-six letters, offering her services to every shipping company on the eastern seaboard. A few replies had been polite. Most had been curt. All had been clear. The only woman allowed on one of their boats—and even this to be generally discouraged—was a captain’s wife.
Or a captain’s daughter, she’d thought, ruefully.
Now, as she emerged from half-mourning, for the first time in her life, Ellen was trying to attract a husband.
There was no other way.
Discard from your speech all that bitterness which springs from disappointment.
“One’s plenty, Mr. Doyle—but I’ll gladly wait my turn,” she said.
“So, then . . .” Henry said, giving her a wink.
The crowd stared as Ellen fumbled, unsure in the silence. “I’m well enough, thanks,” she said. “And you? Is little Hannah’s cough better? I take it Mrs. Doyle’s entirely recovered?”
Another gust caught Ellen’s hair, yanking a stubborn dark strand free of her bonnet. She tucked it back with familiar annoyance—the same battle she’d fought since she was a girl and Mama declared her untamable locks a trial sent from above.
“No. Yes, I mean they’re both fine, but tell me—what do you think?” Henry’s eyes held a mischievous sparkle she couldn’t fathom.
When she didn’t answer, he thumped each oyster on the table, satisfied only when it sounded solid as a stone, then made change for Mrs. North.
What did Ellen think of what?
She could only guess he meant the new ferry. A paddle-wheel steamer had replaced the sleek old periauger on the run to and from New York. Progress, apparently, entailed a virgin sky smeared with coal smoke and brutish vessels that didn’t glide through the sea so much as chop it to bits.
“Something of a stinkpot, I daresay.”
The oysters that Henry was holding clattered to the table, and he squinted with incomprehension.
Oh, Ellen.
Adapt yourself to the prejudices of those with whom you converse, and enter their trains of thought.
“Why, Mr. Doyle. Don’t mind me. I’m far more interested in your thoughts of the steamer.”
Henry burst out laughing. “No, you goose. I mean—”
“—Oh!” the schoolmaster’s wife said. “Oh, my!” She pointed, and all eyes turned to the ground.
Ellen had forgotten about Fluke. Fluke had not forgotten about the lamb. He was eight feet away, dragging the heavy shank backward through the mud.
Henry chuckled. The schoolmaster’s wife laughed. Pastor Bartlett clenched his fists. Three long strides closed the gap, and then the yelp rang in Ellen’s ears before she could even process the swift kick.
“What’s wrong with you? He’s just a puppy!” The words burst out before Ellen could stop them.
She rushed over and gathered the pup in her arms, succeeding in slathering her coat in muddy smears. He was trembling, but she cooed to him like an infant and he eventually relaxed in her grasp. Nothing broken, at least.
But when she turned back to the crowd, the market had fallen silent as the grave. Not a word of haggle. Not the clink of a coin.
The uncontrollable Ellen Prentiss had just spoken out against the pastor himself.
Surely, the end times had arrived.
Ellen understood the scale of her mistake immediately. The heat rose in her face as she handed Fluke to Henry. For all her efforts to reform her behavior, she’d been worse than disagreeable. She’d been opinionated. Obstinate. Disobedient, even. In public.
Even if she’d not accidentally thrown down such a challenge, the pastor would never have overlooked such a prime opportunity to take down the willful girl he’d fought tooth and nail since she could talk. She braced for the fiery, extemporized sermon that would soon outline for the whole market the litany of rules that God Himself had established, and the improper, hoyden, bluestocking Ellen Prentiss had broken yet again.
Those were some of the names he’d called her in the past, but now, without Captain Papa’s protection, he might go as far as brazen hussy. Maybe even dangerous Influence. Any one of them would destroy her fragile hope of securing a husband in Marblehead for good. Maybe all of Essex County. With a few words he would ruin Ellen as surely as he had Abigail, Rebecca, and the tragic Mrs. Reed.
Bartlett secured his dinner and gathered his frown.
Ellen fought the urge to run. Fought it hard.
“I hope you consider yourself quite fortunate, Miss Prentiss,” Bartlett said to her under his breath. “That I am in no humor to quarrel.”
As her jaw dropped, he spoke louder, for the benefit of the crowd.
“During this unique and highly special time, I’m afraid all my attention has been drawn to the Lord’s blessings and I’ve not heard you properly, Miss Prentiss. But I’m certain you must have conveyed your best wishes for Euphemia’s wedding tomorrow. Is that right?”
Ellen still stood on defiant feet, braced for a boarding wave that never came. She nodded, woodenly, wondering if this was a trick. If he merely meant to prolong her suffering.
Then the substance of his words reached her.
Euphemia was getting married? To whom?
“The Bartletts thank you for your kindness,” he continued, “And we look forward to having you join us in church tomorrow.” He looked up at the crowd. “In fact, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to learn that because of certain . . . schedules, the wedding will replace our regular Sunday sermon.”
Pastor Bartlett chuckled at his own uncharacteristic humility. Others laughed nervously.
Ellen backed away.
She was grateful for his mercy today, but still her hands shook. For how much longer could she fight her nature?
The fragile bonds holding her grief at bay suddenly snapped, and desperate loneliness rose in her with the violence of a typhoon.
The oysters were forgotten.
Step. Step. Watch the mud. Step.
She inhaled the loamy smell of the boot-churned earth—the next best thing to sea air. Found herself in front of the printer’s shop. Rounded the corner at the Fountain Inn. Slipped. Caught herself. Scrambled forward. State Street. Lee Street. Front Street.
She was grateful the fish packers, shoe factories, and ropewalk were closed. No one behind those windows to watch her reach the cobbles and break into a run.
* * *
It wasn’t until she reached the harbor that she realized her feet had known exactly where to take her. At Appleton’s Wharf, she could attempt to renew her broken spirit with the warm haze of memory.
Her beloved schooner wasn’t there, of course, but she could stand on that comfortingly solid quay, rest on the river stones worn smooth as slate, and in the quiet of a Saturday, still hear the echo of boot heels, the creak of pulleys, the synchronized harmony of a shanty. She could remember the cheekily upturned bowsprit and two proudly raked masts. The spot on the taffrail where Captain Papa cleaned his pipe.
She could rest for a while—if not quite in the past, neither fully in the present. Here, she could remember who she was. Not this unmoored buoy, bobbing uselessly in the shallows. Not this fragile vessel of a woman, the object of their pity and their scorn.
She was the fierce daughter of Captain Papa.
Accomplished mathematician.
Navigator of the Californian.
And also a woman who no longer had a father, a boat, or anything left to calculate.
When voices interrupted her thoughts, she nearly let a sailor’s curse escape under her breath.
She’d forgotten the ferry. Saturday it arrived from New York.
A small crowd was arriving just across the way at Parrock’s Landing, to meet the steamer as it rounded the Neck—angry, frothing paddles closing fast.
She’d have no more memories today, no moment of peace. Would have to—
There was a peacock-blue dress among the welcome party.
Euphemia’s great surprise must be coming from New York to see her wedding.
No, Ellen realized. Euphemia would never have risked her death of a cold for anyone but her groom. A wealthy cousin, probably. The Bartletts were a proud family. It would have to be someone of note. Not that Ellen cared.
Except, why did Euphemia think she would?
Curiosity got the better of her and she stepped behind the donkey cart, near the wall of the freight office, to remain out of view as the steamer drew closer.
Euphemia stood with a small group of people. Ellen was too far away to recognize them from behind. An older woman. A white-haired man with crossed arms. A young woman in a slate-gray coat—
That was Patience Creesy.
Her heart thudded in her chest even before her mind caught up.
Now that she knew what to look for, she could see instantly that the older woman was Mrs. Creesy. And that must mean—yes—that was Mr. Creesy as well.
If you dare, Euphemia had taunted.
But—
No. That was impossible.
The steamer approached the landing at a rakish angle, requiring the boat hand to leap for his life to secure a line around the bollard. Ellen inched back into the shadows even as she scanned the rows of passengers at the rail.
No. No. No.
No. Certainly not. No.
Tall man. Broad as an elephant. Dark curls framing his face under a captain’s hat. The same curls that used to fall across his eyes as they ran.
Good Lord.
It couldn’t be.
Her legs trembled. She had to press her back against the warehouse wall. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.
Perkins Creesy.
A shadow over his face. No—it was a beard. When did that happen? How long had he been gone?
Ten years. Four months. Eight days.
Forever.
The memories hit her as a breaking wave. Perk climbing trees, that goofy laugh echoing across the bay. Perk playing war with sticks. Perk in the dory, trailing his fingers in the water. Perk handing her the forget-me-not.
Her stomach twisted into knots.
Perk not saying goodbye.
He wore a captain’s hat, though. He’d done it, then. Hadn’t she told him he would? A swell of pride blocked her throat.
The one person left on earth who understood who she truly was. Could she could summon the courage to approach the quay? If she did, would he give her that wry half-grin of his or would he spit at her feet?
She steeled herself with guilt, if not hope. At least she could finally apologize. She owed him that much, and maybe—
Euphemia’s wedding, she remembered. She was here to meet her groom on the steamer.
Perk was—
The stab of pain ripped Ellen nearly in half.
He hadn’t been too busy to write for ten years. He’d been writing to someone all along—it just wasn’t Ellen.
Perk had already spit at her feet.
The town’s dislike she might one day overcome, but not Perk’s hatred. Not ever.
It might have hurt less if she hadn’t deserved every bit of it.
Fearless enough in the storm as they’d sailed from Salem, she’d turned coward as soon as they’d reached the beach. So sure she’d lose everything if she admitted the truth. Instead, it was her lie that had ruined everything.
Now, Perk had become a captain.
Euphemia, after all these years, would soon marry her secret crush.
Ellen was hiding behind a donkey cart in a mud-smeared coat, wild hair twisting in every direction, unable to even complete the market shopping. She’d lost her father, ship, income, identity, and pride. And reminded of her deepest shame, she now wondered if she didn’t deserve all those losses.
Ellen took two steps back, then two more. Then stumbled over a root and fell to the ground.
What had become of her basket?
She edged around the buildings until she was back on Front Street, where she could make her way home unseen. A tightness gripped her belly. Snaked up her neck.
She’d won most of their childhood games, but he’d won the grown-up prize.
Ellen was elated for his success. Also, thunderstruck with self-pity.
When she finally reached her gate, she sliced her hand open, trying to force the latch. Inside, she didn’t stop the front door from slamming. Didn’t stop to hear which shanty Mathilda was singing to her doll. Didn’t pause for Mama’s lecture about “—gone all morning, eggs to be gathered, boots to be shined—”
She heard only the echo of her feet thudding on the risers, the click of the thumb latch into the study.
The floor swayed beneath her like a tilting deck.
Odd for it to do so on land.
She reached for the monkey rail to steady herself against the pitch and yaw, only to find there was no rail. There was no bulwark. There was only a table. A lamp. A dusty book hiding a pressed blue flower. There was only air.
And then the floor.
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