Page 3 of The Salamander

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.”