Chapter 1 #2
TWO DAYS AFTER the funeral, the Haraden house on Charter Street lay hushed.
The murmur of mourners had faded, replaced by creaking floorboards and gulls wheeling above the harbor.
Jonathan sat at his oak table in his study, a militia dispatch before him, the inked lines unread.
His pen hovered over the dispatch, unmoving.
From somewhere deep in his memory, her laugh rose like a gull’s cry on a summer wind… and was gone.
Sitting nearby, Hannah’s head bent over a book, her golden hair a painful echo of her mother’s, while Polly babbled to old Silas who crouched next to her cradle. Martha’s cod chowder scented the air, but the kitchen was quiet.
A knock stirred Jon. Opening the door, he found Mary Diman, no longer dressed in black but a dark blue dress and a red Kashmir shawl, a young woman beside her.
The resemblance between them was plain, the same brown hair and eyes, the same composed bearing.
But the younger green muslin gown and plain bonnet lent her a quiet reserve.
Eunice Mason, widowed by the sea’s cruelty, stood with hands clasped, as if bracing herself.
“Lieutenant Haraden,” Mrs. Diman said, “I’ve come to introduce you to my daughter, Eunice, who we spoke of as governess for your girls.”
Mrs. Mason offered a shy smile, like a gentle doe unsure of herself.
Jon inclined his head. “Mrs. Diman, Mrs. Mason. Please come in.”
The young woman followed her mother inside.
Hannah looked up, her book forgotten.
Silas rose and bowed to the ladies. “Beggin’ your pardon, I’ll just let Martha know we have company.”
Polly stopped babbling and began to fuss.
Eunice knelt beside the cradle, humming a hymn.
The melody wrapped through the room like a thread of calm.
Polly quieted, her tiny hand curling around Mrs. Mason’s finger.
Gratitude pricked through Jon’s daze. Those gentle brown eyes met his, soft with understanding, before turning to Hannah.
“I am happy to meet you, Hannah.”
Hannah nodded but said nothing.
Martha bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gaze swept over Mrs. Diman’s daughter. Turning to the pastor’s wife, Martha said, “Welcome, Mrs. Diman. We’ve chowder if you and your daughter can join us for the noonday meal.”
Mrs. Diman glanced at Jon. “If it’s not too much trouble…”
“Not at all,” Jon said quickly. “Yes, please stay.” Her presence would ease her daughter’s first hours with them.
Jon picked up Polly who’d fallen asleep and led Mrs. Diman and her daughter into the dining room, the scent of chowder drawing them. Hannah walked behind them, silent and watchful.
The oak table, worn from years of family meals, held four settings, Martha having added two across from Jon and Hannah for their guests. Jon placed the sleeping Polly into a basket set in one corner. “She will sleep,” he said. “It’s time for her nap.”
They took their seats and Martha and Silas hurried into the kitchen, returning with steaming bowls of chowder and bread and butter. Having eaten little in the days before, Jon was suddenly hungry.
“Chowder’s hot,” Martha said to Mrs. Mason, placing a bowl before her, “if the hymns haven’t scared it cold.”
A smile flickered across the young woman’s face as she turned to meet Martha’s gaze. “I’ll save the hymns for the girls, Ma’am. This chowder smells wonderful, and its warmth is music enough for now.”
Behind Mrs. Mason, Martha’s mouth twitched in grudging approval.
Hannah’s fingers tightened on her locket. “You’re not my mama,” she said sharply, her blue eyes fierce. “We don’t need you.”
Jon laid his hand over hers. “Hannah, Mrs. Mason is here to care for you and Polly, as your mama would have wished. Be kind and give it time.”
Mrs. Mason met Hannah’s intense look, her brown eyes gentle but firm. “I know I’m not your mother, Hannah, but I’d like to be your friend. I, too, have lost someone I loved.”
Jon exchanged a glance with Mary Diman, whose nod told him she trusted her daughter to weather both his irascible cook and his defiant daughter.
Over the meal, the conversation turned to Salem’s readiness for the fight against the British. “So the fight is to move from the land to sea,” Mrs. Diman observed.
Jon nodded. “General Washington leads the fight on land. He has encouraged the Colonies to take the fight to the sea as well to interrupt British shipping, even sending a few privateers out himself. Massachusetts now has the beginnings of a navy. With it, we can aid the troops with what we take from the British supply ships.”
“That is so important to the cause,” said Mrs. Mason in her quiet voice.
When the bowls were nearly empty, Silas entered with a folded and sealed parchment. “This just arrived for you, sir.”
Jon broke the seal, unfolded the parchment and read Fisk’s neat hand, summoning him to the wharf.
The Tyrannicide had arrived. He looked up at their guests, “I am summoned to the wharf where my new ship awaits. Martha, perhaps you could show Mrs. Mason the chamber prepared for her and the girls’ sleeping room. ”
Martha, returning from the kitchen, stood with hands on hips. “Tour’s fine, sir, but then I’ve work to do and dustin’ that won’t do itself.”
“I will be happy to do my own dusting,” said Mrs. Mason her cheeks flushing faintly.
“That all sounds fine,” said Mary Diman, her smile warm. “We thank you for the meal, Jon, and the delicious chowder, Martha. If all goes well, we will have my daughter’s things delivered later today.”
EUNICE FOLLOWED MARTHA through the narrow hall of the Haraden house, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird.
Mr. Haraden’s kind insistence that she and her mother stay lingered in her mind.
His strong features and his eyes, dark blue like a storm on the horizon, had been clouded by grief.
Yet his gentle touch on Hannah’s hand, calming her fierce outburst, and the way he cradled Polly, so tender for a man just entering his thirties, spoke of a father’s heart.
Losing Thomas just a year into their marriage had driven Eunice inward, her shyness often a cloak against others’ pity. The position as governess would force her to rejoin the living. Perhaps God had placed her here to help a hurting family.
The stairs creaked as Martha led her and her mother upward.
Young Hannah trailed behind, her hand around her locket.
“This’ll be your chamber, Lass,” Martha said, opening a door to a small but well-appointed room that looked out on a garden below, its sprig wallpaper bright and cheery.
“The mistress decorated this chamber herself. The chamber reminds me of her, always smilin’, always cheerful.
She kept it for infrequent guests, but now it will be yours.
” A narrow bed bore a hand-stitched green and yellow quilt with a nod to the wallpaper’s sprigs, its stitches fine, perhaps a product of Mrs. Haraden’s hands.
A washstand, chest of drawers and pegged shelf stood against the walls, and a small writing desk fit nicely in front of the window.
“The chamber gets the afternoon sun,” said Martha, “so you’ll be able to sit at that desk then with no need for a candle. ”
Eunice ran her fingers along the surface of the quilt, its softness grounding her. “It’s lovely.”
“Aye, the mistress had a needle sharper than my tongue,” Martha chuckled, as she picked up a small silver frame holding a miniature painting of Jonathan Haraden.
“She often spent time here when there were no guests and liked to have the master’s portrait near.
She was teachin’ young Hannah to stitch when she took sick with the fever.
She went so fast, the master had no time to prepare. ”
“It happens like that sometimes,” said Eunice, remembering how quickly Thomas was taken from her.
“This chamber will serve you well,” said Eunice’s mother.
“Though your hymns might soothe Polly’s naps,” Martha said, setting down the silver frame, “they won’t charm the dust off these shelves, and I ain’t scalin’ the stairs to chase more cobwebs, mind.”
Eunice faced the cook, tempted to smile.
She was a sturdy woman in her late forties, her white apron tied over a plain woolen gown, and her mob cap barely taming wiry gray curls.
Her hazel eyes, glinting like polished oak in candlelight, softened with crinkled warmth when she spoke of the Haradens, her tough exterior hiding a heart fiercely loyal to the family.
“You need have no concerns, Martha. I’ll take good care of this chamber and help you with the others when my duties with the children allow.
” She kept her voice steady, though inside she felt her heart trembling.
To serve here, where God could use her, was enough.
Martha’s eyes crinkled, a grin breaking through, betraying her approval. “Aye, well, the master’s away plenty with the militia, and it’ll be worse now he’s off to sea with that Tyrannicide. Don’t expect him hoverin’ round.”
“I don’t mind,” Eunice said, her cheeks flushing. “I only wish to care for his girls, to be where God has placed me.” Her thoughts flickered to Jon Haraden’s kind smile.
Her mother’s Kashmir shawl caught the window’s light as she smiled at Martha. “Eunice’s heart is steadfast. She’ll serve this house well.”
They stepped into the girls’ sleeping room next door, where two small beds flanked a large window.
Beneath the window was a wooden chest. A carved wooden cradle sat in the corner.
A rag doll lay on the bed she assumed was Hannah’s, its button eyes worn with love.
Hannah stood in the doorway, clutching her locket, her golden hair framing her sweet face.
“That locket,” said Martha, “was the master’s gift to Hannah’s mama. It never leaves the child’s neck.”
Eunice nodded, understanding. Thomas had given her small gifts she treasured for his memory. Smiling at Hannah, she said, “I would do the same were I her.”
“Polly’s a light sleeper, like her mama,” said Martha. “That one,” she nodded at Hannah, “has her mama’s spark—keeps us hoppin’.”
Ignoring Martha for the moment, Eunice met Hannah’s gaze. “I’ll take good care of your sister with you, Hannah, and be your friend when you’re ready.” Her smile held a prayer, a hope to anchor this grieving home.
Eunice wanted to respect the space their mother doubtless treasured. The appliqué quilts on the beds were charming with flowers and hearts stitched carefully.
“Did your mother make the quilts for you and Polly?” Eunice asked Hannah.
The girl nodded. Her blue eyes flickered, interest piercing her frown.
“I like them,” said Eunice. “Your mama had a gift.”
Eunice’s mother’s hand rested on her shoulder. “You’ll do well here.”
Martha didn’t offer to show them the master’s bedchamber or the other chambers that lined the hall. Instead, she led them downstairs, muttering, “Well, now that’s done, we can get on with the day’s work. Hymns settle babes fine enough but they won’t clean stoves or bake loaves.”
Eunice’s heart lifted as she thought of bringing joy to this home where hurt lingered.