The Movement of Stars (5 page)

Pearl
’s chronometer aside to make room.
Bowditch’s
American Practical Navigator
, it read.
She turned back the green cover. Inside, two names were inscribed:
Hannah Gardner Price Edward Gardner Price
Isaac pointed to Hannah’s name with his long finger and tapped it gently.
“That’s me. And my brother.” She turned the flyleaf over, feeling protective of their names, then paged through one delicate sheet at a time until she reached the first set of exercises. Bringing out a battered copybook with some blank sheets at the back, Hannah put it down in front of Isaac, pressing it open to a clean page and handing over a stub of pencil from a dented pewter cup on the desk.
“You can come once a week, or when you can manage, starting tomorrow. Evenings are probably best. But in the meantime, let’s see what you can do with these.”
She watched him study the page.
Reduce 1/5 to a decimal.
Pressing hard on the graphite, he slowly inscribed:
1
√
5.0
and then stared at it.
Hannah plucked the pencil from his fingers and put a line through what he had done, rewriting it in the reverse: 5√1.0, then handed the pencil back.
“You were nearly right. Go on from there,” she said. He squinted at the page, taking what seemed like a very long time before putting the point of the pencil to the paper.
Isaac inscribed a curvaceous
2
beneath her angular scratches, then placed a careful dot in front of it.
Hannah realized she’d been holding her breath, and as he made his mark, she exhaled, letting go of the chair and clasping her hands on her lap.
“That is correct,” she said, keeping her voice steady. It wouldn’t do to let him know she was excited. “Go on and do the next one.”
If he was to be of any use to his ship’s navigator, Hannah thought, watching him work, he’d need books. They could be borrowed; but she’d also need a quadrant, and an azimuth circle if she could get one. She sighed. It had been so long since she looked at the Bowditch. Edward had never shown much interest in navigation, though he liked observing, especially if she told him where to look.
I can teach this man,
Hannah thought, watching Isaac work down the page of simple arithmetic.
Anyone who wants to improve should have the chance.
She ignored the sentiment that flickered in its wake: no matter how accomplished a navigator he might become, she could not think of a single captain who would have him for an officer.

Dr. Hall’s spine seemed slightly more curved than Hannah remembered, his sheep-like, iron-grey curls tufting paler around his temples. It was probably guilt playing tricks on her mind that made him seem like he’d aged; she hadn’t been to visit his house on Pineapple Street in months.

“Good evening,” Hannah said, once he’d made his way inside and hung his hat on the rack. “It’s good to see thee.”
“Hannah Price. Thee as well. I’ve missed the pleasure of thy company of late.” He straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. “I hope it’s those equations I provided that have been occupying thy time. Though I chose them as a challenge,” he added. “I don’t expect thee to have mastered them already.”
Hannah hesitated. Were his expectations that low? Certainly he didn’t mean the comment to sting, but a flash of indignation threatened to voice itself anyway.
I finished them months ago,
she felt like saying.
It took me but a week. How long did it take
you
?
“I’ve worked most of them down,” she said instead, choosing her words carefully.
He nodded but didn’t say anything, and Hannah wondered if he’d heard.
“But what are thy thoughts about the orbit of Uranus?” she added, raising her voice. “Is Mr. Adams correct about another, undiscovered planet being the cause of its deviation? Or might the orbit be reconciled with the laws of gravitation?”
They made their way into the kitchen, where Hannah had set out half a roasted chicken and a pot of chowder. She’d ended up gathering the clams herself that morning, sacrificing two hours of work time to do it. Dr. Hall took his time settling into his seat, then peered up at her.
“There are as yet too many unknown factors,” he said. “I cannot draw a conclusion. Nor should Mr. Adams or his contemporaries. Speculation is the cause of many erroneous hypotheses, which then lead our American observatories into the realm of frivolous and self-serving activities on their behalf. A game of proving oneself correct, at the expense of effort better spent upon the true portal to astronomical innovation.”
Hannah started as if she’d been slapped. The work of American observatories—resolving nebulae, charting the entirety of the Heavens, even trying to photograph stars!—was revolutionary. She shared his reverence for pure mathematics, but to her mind the quest for astronomical knowledge unfolding across the nation was the opposite of frivolous. She’d give anything to be part of it.
Though her heart was pounding, Hannah held her tongue, remembering what it felt like to squirm under Dr. Hall’s fierce blue gaze, the clear color of September sky. As a teacher he demanded full effort on behalf of truth. The ability to defend one’s work was a measure of moral fiber. He conflated the work with the student: poor work meant poor character. A wrong answer meant a lazy mind.
She had rarely flinched under his scrutiny, but that was because she never turned in poor work. She’d thrilled to his approval, and earned it, but she’d been lucky. Her father had taught her to count carefully, check her work, and be diligent. Thus she’d been rewarded with Dr. Hall’s attention. He’d provided her with work in the higher maths once her school days were done; without it, she’d have been unable to keep up with the progress of astronomy, no matter how many periodicals and updates George Bond posted.
During dinner her mind kept flicking back to the events of the afternoon, and the strange new student she now had on her hands, and soon enough Dr. Hall was rising to take his leave and her father was offering to walk with him to discuss some matters. Hannah walked them to the door, and as Dr. Hall approached the porch steps she leapt to kick some metal spars out of the way, then leaned down to take his elbow.
“I’m yet hale, Hannah Price,” he snapped, and she pulled back as if burnt.
“Of course,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean—”
Her father shook his head at her in warning, and she clamped her jaw shut.
Half an hour later he returned, and as she dried the last of the dishes she asked about the incident.
“Do you think Dr. Hall might be fading? Physically, I mean,” Hannah asked while she stacked the plates back in the cupboard.
Nathaniel stared as if she’d suggested the moon was falling.
“Fading? He’s a younger man than myself.”
“Barely! And regardless of his actual age, I think we should be mindful: he’s all alone, and if he’s in ill health—”
“He stated quite clearly that he’s yet hale, Hannah. Perhaps if thee spent more time in his company thee would realize that he’s as vital as any man hereabouts.”
Hannah sighed and slid the last cup and saucer into place.
“I’ll have to make the time,” she said. “Though I’m certain I haven’t left any extra hours lurking about.”
She meant it as a joke, but her father looked serious as a sermon.
“Do that,” he said. It sounded less a suggestion than a command.

12:55 am. I have gone up to the walk to check again but the clouds obscure everything. I was in hopes of spotting the double star Zeta Ursi—I read that it is unusually bright this month, and may be resolved at a magnitude sufficient for the Dollond—and I fear that I may miss it. At this thought I am pulled down. In spite of all my industry Nature does seem to laugh in my face on nights such as this, as if to say, You cannot expect to See! And then I do feel weak-spirited. For when I cannot observe, it is as if the great beauty and order and Truth of the Heavens does dissolve and I sense only my own wretchedly small place.

saac was late for his first lesson, and Hannah guessed he had come straight from the blacksmith’s. Grease stains shaped like continents mapped his hands and forearms, and he was sweaty and breathless, as if he’d run all the way. Instead of leading him upstairs, Hannah brought him into the kitchen, handed him a washrag, and pointed at the basin.

He nodded, but did not move toward the basin until she turned away. When he appeared in the doorway of the garret a few minutes later he seemed refreshed, though he hovered as if he was uncertain whether to enter the room.

“This will be your desk,” she said, beckoning him in and nodding at the stool, which now sat beside a small table. She’d placed it at a right angle to her desk, the stool on the opposite side, so that he’d face her; but, watching him angle himself into place, hunched over like a giant sunflower, Hannah wished she hadn’t set it up that way.

Lesson in hand, Hannah paused, considering the room’s heavy wooden beams and cluttered shelves, then imagined it afloat upon the great oceans of the world: a waterborne observatory carrying her and her instruments around the Cape of Good Hope, Van Diemen’s Land, the high cliffs of Madagascar. She’d observe stars never seen at northern latitudes; a solar eclipse; the Eta Aquarids and their rain of light. A buzzing tingle ran up her spine at the thought of them, as if lightning were striking nearby.

Settling herself on her stool, she tried to dismiss the fantastic image as she picked up her quill.
“Mathematics are the foundation of the navigator’s work,” she began, tapping the quill on her desk once for emphasis. “The proper use of the instruments and careful, diligent observations are also necessary. But without maths, you’ll surely founder. Think of these lessons as the foundations of a house: we’ll begin with the very base, and build upon it depending upon your aptitude and progress. Do you understand?” When he nodded, she slid a copybook and pencil across the desk. “We’ll begin with the plane scale.”
For the next few hours Isaac drew as directed, a series of careful lines splayed across the pages like fallen matchsticks. First there were parallels, then “right” angles in triangles, and then more lines within and without those figures. When he offered his work, she felt a smile stretch her cheeks, and she had to work the corners of her mouth back to an appropriate line.
“Acceptable,” she said. His brow furrowed just a fraction, and she realized he might not understand. “It’s good,” she added.
Glancing up at the little window above the desk, she was shocked to see the nimbus of the rising moon, waxing three-quarters. If she wanted to sweep, it had to be now, before its light obscured everything else in the sky. Yet Isaac sat, as if more lessons were forthcoming.
She stood up, gathering her observing log, chronometer, and quill. Still he remained, watching her like a statue, until she stood at the bottom of the rickety, narrow wooden stairway that led up to the walk.
“Are you coming up, then?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. “Mind the top step. It’s loose.” Grabbing another pair of mittens from the peg near the door, she let an icy blast of air onto the steps behind her as she shouldered the door open. Isaac made to follow her, and their heads almost collided as she ducked back in.
“And take that coat,” she said, nodding toward Edward’s old woolen parka. “I have extra mittens.”
Isaac followed her out, carrying the coat in his arms, and paused as the door squawked shut.
“Have you ever been out on a walk?” she asked, her voice carrying easily in the still air.
“I have not,” he said. “It feels like a night watch.”
He put his arms into the coat. It fit well. Hannah inhaled as if she could smell it from across the roof: salt and wool and dust; a hint of ferrous sulfate and gum arabic from an ancient accident with the inkpot; and still, always, Edward’s scent, his particular mix of grime and woodsmoke and mud. Sometimes she wore the coat herself, just to feel close to him.
“But this air—so cold,” Isaac said, buttoning the togs and shaking his head. “I have sixteen years of age the first time I am feeling a northern winter. I imagine I am dying.”
“And how do you find them now? Our winters, I mean.”
“I am like an old ship now,” he said. “Cracking and creaking.” She smiled, following his gaze across the dark expanse of Nantucket Town, out toward the Harbor, where a few twinkles of light told of crews playing cards or singing or fighting. “But it is not bothering me any longer. It empties the mind. Clears the body. There is pain, but it is good. It is necessary.”
He wrapped his arms around himself. She knew what he meant. When she rose in the morning, her own joints registered their protest against her age, the weather, her occupation. Her body felt heavier at its center, less lithe in its extremes. But she avoided thinking too long on it. It was immodest, for one. And vain. Worse, thinking about her body led to the desire to touch, and the few times that Hannah had ventured in that direction, in the dark under her quilt, she’d been too ashamed to even enjoy the sensation. An ailing elder cousin had once confided on her deathbed that she was grateful her husband had never seen her naked, and Hannah, at fourteen years of age, had felt that she understood her completely, and been thankful on her behalf.
In the east, Arcturus was already high. Hannah surveyed the sky as if she could see clear through the visible horizon in the distance and all the way to the planets Dr. John Herschel, the great cataloguer of the skies, saw through the lens of his twenty-inch refractor, to Ceres and Pallas, and beyond. She set down her stool and began to speak, her voice sliding smoothly across the rooftop.
“Imagine that you are standing on the very surface of the Earth,” she said. “Imagine there are neither trees, nor houses, nor mountains— aught but you, balanced on a marble that is floating in the Heavens. Of course, you’re spinning with this marble, and also moving in a great arc about the sun, completing one circle each 365 days.
“Now imagine that you’re holding an enormous parasol, the tip of w h i c h e n d s a t P o l a r i s — t h e r e
.
” Hannah pointed at the North Star. “The circumpolar stars—those closest to Polaris—you may imagine as fixed upon the inside of the parasol. They rotate around the Pole Star but maintain their relative distance to each other. We can always see them. The rest of the celestial bodies rise and set as the Earth turns, seen only at certain times or in certain seasons.
“In addition, if you draw in your mind a series of lines parallel to the equator, circling the inside of your parasol at equal distances from the north celestial pole and each other, forming a series of concentric rings, you’ll have a picture of the lines we use to measure the distances of stars from the celestial Equator.”
“They are the lines of latitude?” Isaac asked, his eyes trained on Polaris.
“Yes, as projected onto the celestial sphere. We call them the parallels of declination. Another set of such lines—the hour lines— corresponds to the lines of longitude. They encircle our Earth from the opposite direction, passing through the North and South Poles. We use these lines to measure the angle of a given star at a given time, relative to the horizon, so that we might deduce our location on the sphere by means of triangulation.”
Hannah glanced over at Isaac; his eyebrows veed together as if he was thoroughly perplexed.
“Think about it this way: the sun is our nearest star. It appears to travel across the sky each day, taking 24 hours to make a full circle of 360 degrees, or 15 degrees of longitude each hour. If we measure the sun’s exact position at noon, and we know the time at your home port, as well as the time at your location at sea, a comparison of the two will determine your longitude. Which is of course why you need the . . .”
She trailed off, hoping Isaac would finish the sentence, but he was silent. His eyes were closed.
She felt a flash of anger, chased by a pang of disappointment. Either he wasn’t paying attention or she was boring him to sleep. Hannah tilted her head to get a better look at his face. The tender veil of light from the crescent moon silvered his cheek and brow and outlined his mouth. His lips were full as a woman’s—not any women she knew, but those who frequented the taverns by the wharves. Slicked with paint and perfume. She wondered if his lips were soft, and then, shockingly, what they would taste of. Her skin tingled with gooseflesh and she shook her head, now glad his eyes were closed. She’d lost her place in the lesson. What had she been saying?
“The chronometer,” she snapped. “Do you understand?” Isaac sighed and shook his head slightly, then opened his eyes, keeping his gaze on the sky. He seemed to gather his words as he went, like acorns.
“Remembering all of this—I am thinking it is not possible.” He looked toward the door, raising his shoulders in a universal gesture of defeat. “I should not be wasting of the time.”
“Wasting whose time?” she asked, trying to ignore the sense of panic that rose in her throat. “It is complex, yes. And you don’t have the benefit of a higher education to support the work. But neither do I.” She folded her own arms across her chest. “You’re not expected to know it all right away. There’s no reason you cannot become competent in a few months’ time. If you choose to give up after so short a trial, though . . . I cannot help you.”
Hannah clamped her jaw shut, feeling as if she’d failed on her very first lesson. It was clear that he could learn; and, she was certain, she could do a decent job of teaching him. His humility was charming, but impractical. If there was any hope of advancing his position, he had to persist.
Isaac hesitated, and Hannah made up his mind for him.
“I have not yet dismissed you,” she said, beckoning him onto the stool beside the telescope. “Please sit down.”
When he obeyed, Hannah was so relieved she slumped down herself, with her back to the railing and her knees pulled up under her skirts, then motioned to the eyepiece of the telescope.
“Look.”
Isaac hesitated for a moment, then leaned in, cautious, as if the telescope were an animal that might snap his eyeball out of its socket and swallow it. Once he had settled, though, he was silent for a full minute.
“Can you describe what you see?” Hannah asked.
“Another world,” he said, not removing his eye from the lens. “Go on.”
“I see stars—many stars. Thousands. Like seashells. Or
fl o r e s
. Some are very bright, some are pale. Some are coming, going. There, but no there—”
He picked his head up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It is difficult—the language.”
“I understand you,” Hannah said, envisioning the field. “And your observations are correct. The very brightest stars we say are of the first magnitude. The faintest are eighth or ninth magnitude. And the places where you cannot distinguish quite what you’re seeing—those are nebulas. They are the most interesting of all. No one is quite sure what they are. We study them.”
He nodded. “
Nebuloso.
I understand.”
“Good.” Hannah glanced up at the sky again. “I’m going to observe now,” she said, and he rose, graceful as a cat. “We can continue next week.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly.
The stool was still warm: she could feel it even through her coat and dress, petticoat and stockings. The sensation gave her a peculiar thrill. She put her eye to the telescope, refocused, and steadied herself, trying to ignore the heat that seemed to have reached her neck and cheek the instant she sat down. With precise motions, she moved the scope in a small arc, her actions so slow and steady that the change in position was barely discernible.
There were so many stars in the region between Pollux and Procyon that new objects were only visible on the clearest nights. The stars that formed the Twins, the Crab, and the Unicorn made passage across her lens. She swept from east to west and back, losing track of everything but each familiar star and the dark sky it swam upon.
When she finally looked up, nearly an hour had elapsed, and she blinked at Isaac, who was still sitting there watching her as if spellbound. She cleared her throat, but couldn’t think of anything to say, and was grateful when he rose to his feet and nodded, then lifted one hand. Whether the gesture was meant to be a salutation or an exhortation to remain at her work, she could not tell. But she was grateful when he disappeared through the door without saying or asking anything more.