Hot Winds From Bombay (16 page)

“It’s good to see you smile like that, Persia,” her father said. “You’re pleased about your new job, then?”

“Oh, yes, Father. More pleased than you’ll ever know!”

Asa Whiddington continued to watch Persia out of the corner of his eye. He half hated what he was doing. There wasn’t an Irish ice-cutter alive who was worthy of her. But, dammit all, she needed a husband, and it was for sure she’d never find one from York County or the vicinity. There might be some single men somewhere in the county who hadn’t heard of her disgrace, but even then it would be hard to find a man who wanted to marry an old maid of twenty-six when there was younger flesh to choose from. But the Irishmen were different. They didn’t care what people said about Persia; they liked her. And she was still a pretty woman, in spite of her advanced age. Working closely with the men, she was sure to get at least one proposal of marriage. And her father figured she’d jump at it, if only to get away from Quoddy Cove and its wagging, cutting tongues.

“Are you all right, Father?” Persia touched his hand, then felt his forehead.

“I’m fine,” he blustered. “Don’t fuss over me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you went so quiet all of a sudden.”

He looked at her face as if he were seeing it for the first time—the bright hair like a burnished frame surrounding a portrait of a sad-eyed woman. Her eyes still danced with sapphire lights. But if you bothered to look below the surface, you could see the pain. And her full mouth, which used to curve up all the time in a smile that showered the whole world with love, now had a downward pull to it. Still, it seemed that the past painful years had only made her more beautiful.

“Persia, do you ever give any thought to marrying these days?”

She laughed softly, but there was no humor in the sound. “Marriage? At my age? Oh, Father, you are such a romantic!”

“I’m not talking about romance, child,” he said gently. “I’m talking about a family, a home of your own, and comfort in your old age.”

She didn’t laugh, and the small smile faded from her lips. “Yes, Father. I think of it all the time. But what’s the use?”

He patted her hand but said no more. They sat in silence and listened to the melancholy song of the iron wheels and the moan of the whistle echoing off the frozen land.

Persia’s excitement at the prospect of overseeing the ice harvest had faded at her father’s mention of marriage. She ached for a man to love, to give her a home and his children to bear and raise. But maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe some women were put on earth to do other things. And maybe Persia Whiddington was one of them. Any other possibility seemed highly unlikely at this stage of her life.

She sighed and stared out the cinder-frosted side windows of the train, searching the forbidding, snow-blanketed landscape for some answer to the uncertain scheme of her life. But the cold, bleak land only intensified her loneliness. She closed her eyes and tried not to think, not to need, not to long for things beyond her reach.

It was on a Saturday that Persia and her father returned from Boston to the house on Gay Street. Because of their tiring trip the day before, she almost talked her father into staying home from church the following morning. Had she been able to persuade him, her whole future would have been altered, for better or worse.

As it was, the captain, dyspeptic and disgruntled after the trip, was in no mood for a preacher’s ramblings that morning, either. He might have suggested staying home himself, if Persia hadn’t first. But he was in a temper to argue with the gatepost. Cook made pancakes—his favorite—for breakfast; he wanted oatmeal. Fletcher laid out his black suit to wear; he ordered it away and chose the dark blue. And when Persia said, “Father, I really am quite worn out this morning. And the weather looks so threatening. I think we might be better off staying in today,” he blew up.

“Not go to church? Have you lost your wits, woman? We’ll have every tongue in town slicing us to bits. They all know we returned last night.”

“Do you really care what they say? We’ve heard it all before. Besides, if we’re not in church, maybe they’ll be able to concentrate on the sermon for a change instead of staring at me.”

“Persia, I won’t let you take the coward’s way out. We are going to church and that’s that!”

She started to argue and tell him that it was
his
welfare she was thinking of, not her own. But what good would that do? She had seen him like this before on infrequent occasions. She might as well go up to the rooftop and try to win a debate with a howling nor’easter.

She shrugged her acceptance and went upstairs to get her cloak and gloves. While pulling on her fur-lined boots against the freezing cold and the wet snow they would have to slosh through on their walk to church, an idea formed in her mind and a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. It was madness to walk on a day like this, especially with her father’s gout acting up. But she would never be able to convince him to travel to church any other way than they had always done. However, given his sour temper this morning, there might be a possibility.

He was waiting in the hallway for her when she came down the stairs.

“What took you so long, Persia? We’ll be late now because of your fussing before the mirror.”

“Then we will just have to be late,” she replied haughtily. “If you’re about to suggest that Fletcher drive us in the sleigh, I won’t hear of it. We
always
walk!”

For a moment, the old captain looked uncertain. His gray eyes narrowed and a nervous twitch set his jaw muscle working.

“See here, now! You know my foot’s paining me. If I want to ride to church, I’ll ride! Fletcher, hitch up the team!”

Fletcher shot Persia an amused glance and said, “As you wish, Captain Whiddington, sir.” He hurried out to bring the sleigh around before Persia’s father could change his mind or figure out what his daughter had been up to.

So, on that cold, snowy morning, instead of having to slosh along on foot, Persia Whiddington rode in style to meet her destiny.

Persia was relieved when Fletcher stopped the sleigh in front of the church. Unaccountably, her father had brought up the subject of marriage again as they rode along. He seemed obsessed suddenly with the topic. And he was making her exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Please, Father, you needn’t worry about me. I have other things I want to do before I settle down. Besides, I’m perfectly content making a home for you.”

The captain continued his harangue as they climbed out of the sleigh. “What other things could you possibly be thinking of? Every woman wants a husband, a family, and a home of her own. As for your caring for me, I’m thinking about going back to sea. Not as captain, mind you, but I make a
damn
fine supercargo!”

“Father!”
Persia scolded in a whisper. They were practically on the steps of the church, and even if the other arriving worshipers hadn’t heard his curse, God certainly had.

She noted a group of sailors huddled in a nervous little knot in the lee of the church. They would be shipping out within the week and were expected by their captains and their ships’ owners to make peace with God before setting out to sea. She knew from having observed such reluctant churchgoers in the past that they would wait until the very last minute before slipping in to settle themselves uncomfortably on the back pews.

On her father’s arm, with her black taffeta skirts rustling softly, Persia made her way down the center aisle toward their usual seats on the second pew. It still seemed strange that the two places beside them—those once occupied by her mother and Europa—were empty now. But Persia had little time to ponder over that before Reverend Osgood mounted to his pulpit and commanded, “Let us pray!”

After his booming “Amen,” Persia settled back to endure the sermon. But the white-haired clergyman surprised her by veering from his usual Sunday routine. Holding up a long sheet of foolscap for all to see, he announced, “I have in my hands a plea from one of our brethren in a far-off pagan land. You are all acquainted, I feel sure, with the name of Cyrus Blackwell, our missionary to Bombay, India. Not many of you will remember him, since he left us as a mere lad to follow his holy calling. But we all knew and loved his dear sister, Birdie, a saint of a woman.”

The congregation muttered their agreement, making Persia twist in her seat and bite her lower lip for control. A
saint
indeed! she thought angrily, remembering the pain the woman had caused her and her mother.

The minister continued, “Only this week I received a letter from the good Reverend Blackwell with a most unusual request. I will read his words to you.”

Persia focused her full attention on the bespectacled cleric as he held the rough sheet under his long nose, squinting hard at it. A letter all the way from India! She had no idea what the missionary might be writing back to Maine about, but that didn’t matter. Her imagination was fired by the fact that his words had crossed the oceans of the world. She leaned slightly forward, anxious to hear all.

The minister cleared his throat loudly, then began reading.

Reverend Osgood paused, clearing his throat again. He decided to omit the next few sentences of the missionary’s letter, which relayed all the details of Hannah Blackwell’s demise after she’d wasted away for weeks in the throes of a mysterious tropical malady.

The letter went on, with Reverend Blackwell explaining that life in India would be neither easy nor overly comfortable. But Persia heard none of this. Her face felt hot and her hands were sweating and trembling in her lap.
Bombay!
The exotic name whispered through her mind like a hot, fragrant wind, exciting her senses, making her feel light-headed and giddy. The time, the place, and the man himself were right. What poetic justice that the brother of the woman who had branded her a wanton would now return her dignity by bestowing his respected name upon her!

The missionary, Cyrus Blackwell, had just handed her her longed for place in society along with her long-awaited ticket to India.

“Whither thou goest, I will go,” Reverend Osgood boomed, taking for the text of his sermon from the Book of Ruth, first chapter, sixteenth verse. “And where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

Immediately following the benediction, Persia was out of the pew and hurrying up the aisle. Her father watched her brush past the other women of the church, who were huddled in excited knots, discussing Reverend Blackwell’s bizarre request.

Persia heard the exclamations from the church ladies as she passed them:

“India! Can you imagine? Why, I’d sooner see my daughter headed for hell than that dark, heathen land!”

“It mightn’t be so bad to go there as Cyrus Blackwell’s wife. I remember him from long ago. A handsome scamp—nothing like poor Birdie in looks or temperament. I always thought, had he stayed here, that he and I might have married. In fact, if it weren’t for my husband, I’d be packing my bags the minute I get home.”

“You can’t mean it, Clarinda! Why, the very idea! And said aloud right here under God’s own roof!”

Persia half smiled as she watched the portly Mrs. Archibald Leeds blush, then reply, “God knows my heart’s been Cyrus Blackwell’s all these years. He won’t be shocked.”

But the other ladies were. Persia was, too. Clarinda Leeds was not a young woman. How old, she wondered, was Cyrus Blackwell? Then she decided it didn’t matter. This was not to be a marriage of love, but one of convenience on both sides. She hurried on as the women began casting wild guesses as to who might volunteer to go on this mission of mercy to India. It was no surprise to Persia that her name was not on their list of possibilities. She smiled, thinking how shocked they would all be.

Simple shock was hardly the word for her father’s reaction when she told him. By the time he made it up the steps and inside the house—slowly, since Persia, in her excitement, had dashed out of the sleigh and forgotten to lend him her arm—she was in the library already. He found her leaning over his desk, thoroughly engrossed in a navigation chart.

“Persia, what
is
going on?” he demanded.

When she glanced up at him, there was a glow about her face and a glitter to her eyes that made her look feverish. Concerned he went to her, placing a hand on her forehead.

“Are you ill, daughter?”

She laughed with the kind of joy she’d exhibited as a girl and whirled away from him, sweeping into a lively waltz about the room.

“Father, dear Father, I’ve never felt better in my life!”

She sang the words. He was quite astounded. Although, as a man of the sea, he was not puritanical in his notions about singing and dancing, he did not hold with such frivolities on the Sabbath. A tiny “damn” from a grown man was one thing, but a woman prancing about as Persia was doing only invited the devil.

“Enough!”
he bellowed in his best tone of command, the one usually reserved for mutinous seamen. “Sit! I’ll have no more of this disturbing of my Sunday peace!”

Persia whirled breathlessly into a wing chair and let her arms fall limp over the sides. She was grinning at him like a cat full of cream. He hadn’t seen her indulge in such foolishness since she was thirteen years old and had tried to stow away on one of his ships dressed as a cabin boy. He had to smile at the thought in spite of himself. Damned if the cunning little imp hadn’t nearly got away with it!

He forced a stern expression and a sterner voice. “Now, Miss Persia Whiddington, I’d like to know exactly what’s going on.”

“Oh, Father, it’s just what you’ve been wanting. I thought you would have guessed by now.”

He gazed down at her, looking perplexed. “What are you talking about, girl?”

“I’m going to be married.”

“Married?”

“Yes! I’m going to India to marry Reverend Cyrus Blackwell!”

He drew away from her abruptly, and his eyes narrowed under their bushy brows. “The hell you say!”

“Don’t you see? It’s what I’ve always dreamed of… ever since I was a little girl. I’ve always wanted to cross the oceans. And to actually
live
in a foreign land… in
India,
of all places! Why, it’s as if my prayers were heard by Reverend Blackwell and his by me. This is the perfect solution for both of us. And now my life makes sense for the first time ever. I was never meant to marry Zachariah Hazzard. That’s why things didn’t work out. I was being saved for grander things. I’ll start packing tonight. When the
Madagascar
sails, I’ll be on her!”

“I forbid it!”

She backed away from him and her smile faded. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Father. I was sure you would understand and be happy for me.”

“How can I be happy that you’re going around the world to marry a man you don’t even know, much less love? I know you need a husband, Persia, but I simply can’t allow this.”

Persia went to him and brushed his grizzled cheek with her lips. “I’m sorry, Father, truly. But I’m not a child any longer. And although I’d like your blessing, I’m going regardless.”

She turned to leave, but his words stopped her. “How can you marry Birdie Blackwell’s brother, after all the terrible things she said about you? Doesn’t it mean anything that her vicious gossip broke your mother’s heart?”

Persia shook her head. “He can’t be anything like Miss Birdie was. Didn’t he leave her when he was very young? Probably he went away because he recognized her as evil and wanted to be out from under her influence. He’s a man of God, Father. He
must
be a good man!”

Before he could say another word, Persia hurried off to her room. She spent the rest of the short winter afternoon there, sorting her thoughts and her clothes. The heavy woolens that wouldn’t be practical in India she folded into a neat pile. Those would go to Europa in Portland. She cast aside her scarlet cape—hardly a fitting color for a minister’s wife!

The supper hour came and passed, but Persia did not go downstairs to eat. She wasn’t hungry. She had too much to think about, too much to do. Besides, she had said what she had to say to her father. If she faced him across the table this soon, he would only start in on her again. He would come around, but she had to give him the time he needed.

She undressed, donned a warm nightgown, and climbed into bed. But far into the night, she tossed and turned on her mattress. A feverish excitement gripped her, and sleep refused to come. Finally, she lit her whale-oil lamp and reached for her Bible. If she was going to be the wife of a missionary, she would have to take her religion more seriously. She concentrated hard on the tiny print, but her eyes soon closed and the book slipped to her breast.

Asa Whiddington had spent a long, lonely evening in the library. He loved these wintry nights when Persia was with him. Unlike most fathers and daughters, the two of them could talk. And they did talk—endlessly—about foreign lands, ships, the sea, the winds, the stars. Suddenly he sat up in his chair, realization coming to him like a blow. Yes, they had talked, but always of the things
he
loved and knew. When had they ever discussed Persia’s dreams and hopes?

“Never!” he told himself unhappily. He had spent all these years filling her head with the very things that were now about to take her from him forever. “You selfish old bastard,” he muttered. “Serves you right.”

Heaving a weary sigh, he shoved himself up from his chair. It was time he made peace with her. She was right: he wanted her to marry, and he wanted her to be happy. She could probably do neither by staying here in Maine with him. He didn’t like what she was about to do, but did he really have any right to object? He had lived a full life. Now it was his daughter’s turn to choose her own path, even if it took her far away from him. At least he could talk to her, calmly and rationally, instead of hurling abuses as he had done earlier. He might be able to bear having his daughter go away, but he would die if he lost her love and her respect.

He climbed the stairs slowly, trying to frame the proper words of reconciliation. He decided that he would simply apologize for his abominable behavior earlier, then let her do the talking for a change. Maybe during a civilized discussion, it would dawn on Persia that this was not what she really wanted at all. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best he could come up with.

Not a sound issued from her room. Her father knocked softly but received no answer. Lamplight gleamed into the hallway from underneath the door. Sudden fear gripped him. What if he had driven her away? What if she’d packed her things and fled into the night, unwilling to hear more of his tirades?

He grabbed the brass knob and wrenched the door open. His heart thudded with sudden relief. She was sleeping, a soft smile curving her lips. He stood just inside the door for several moments staring at her, his heart brimming with tenderness for his most precious daughter. She looked far younger than her years with the lace-edged collar of her nightgown tied demurely under her chin and her long, shining hair flowing over the pillow. The patchwork quilt that covered her rose and fell evenly as she breathed. One hand, fingers curled delicately, rested on a book, while the other was thrown back over her head. He tiptoed across the room and took the volume from her grasp.