The Vanishing Point (43 page)

Once married, I gave up Midwifery and worked with my Husband in the Apothecary. We were as much Partners in Commerce as in Love, working side by side as we weighed the In
gredients and ground them with Mortar and Pestle. We sold our own Elixirs, Lozenges, and Pills. Once when Mr. Ward sailed to England, he entrusted to me the Role of Deputy Husband. I ran the Shop and handled all Business Dealings in his Absence.

Let me tell you that Mr. Ward, like our own Father, was a scholarly Man, possessing a modest Library of Books on such divers Subjects as Alchemy, Astrology, Chymistry, and the Wonders of the Natural World. Mr. Ward belonged to a Salon of Sorts, with other Learned Men and their Wives. Though I never quite escaped my Reputation, I made Friends with those who respected me for my Experience. They never tired in begging me to tell Tales of my Travels.

Daniel being an only Child, we could afford to send him to the best Grammar Schools. At fourteen, he completed his Apothecarer's Apprenticeship. Sister, he was a bonny Boy, blessed with Father's Mind and your Beauty poured into a male Form. He was also ambitious, and Mr. Ward and myself were ambitious for him.

"The Lad is so full of Promise," Mr. Ward said. "He could do better than run an Apothecary." Then I did confess to my Husband my Secret Wish that Daniel could study Medicine like his Grandfather after whom I had named him. There being no School of Medicine in the Colonies, we enlisted the help of a Wealthy Patron to send Daniel to Oxford. Daniel did stay there eight Years. In his Letters, he seemed happy in his Studies and pleased with his Life. He might have stayed on in Old England and led a comfortable Existence far from Home had not Mr. Ward died of an Apoplexy.

Having written this, May, I must lay down my Quill and collect my Thoughts. My doting Granddaughter has poured China Tea for me. I watch the Leaves settle at the Bottom of the Cup. Once I might have tried reading my Future therein, but at my Age, my Future lies not in this World but the Next. To make any Sense of my Life, I must keep looking to the Past.

I cannot describe in simple Words my Grief to have lost my
Husband. Daniel then returned from his long Sojourn and tried to comfort me as best he could. He had left me as a Boy and returned as a handsome Stranger. May, you would have been so proud to see him step off the Ship in his embroidered Waistcoat. He is tall like you and proud, also. Something of your Roving Spirit lives on in him. Though affectionate enough, he is of an independent Nature and did not linger long in Boston. He went to Philadelphia, where his Patron had taken up Residence. Being the only University-trained Physician in the City, my Son soon attracted Patients from the best Families. Although I was sad to have him living at such Distance from me, his Fame in Physick was a Source of deep Pride.

As for myself, I carried on with the Sign of the Mortar and Unicorn Apothecary. Daniel had little Interest in the Business, and I was grateful to have the Dignity of an Occupation to lighten the Loneliness of my Widowhood. Indeed, I had little Desire to be a Dowager reduced to living off my Son's Income. My Life in Boston was not unhappy, for I had my Friends, Mr. Ward's Collection of Books, and it might shock you to hear that I was known in the Tavern for my Skill at the Cards (tho' I never played for Money). As an old woman, I become more and more like our Joan.

Thus my Son and I did live Worlds apart, though he wrote regularly. Then in 1717, I received an Invitation to come down to Philadelphia, the Occasion being none other than Daniel's Wedding. His Bride was a wealthy Merchant's Daughter named Rebecca Barnett. If you saw her, May, you would be reminded of Paul Banham's Daughters. She had their Air of Refinement and Breeding, but, to my Son's Good Fortune, she was also possessed of a kindly Nature. After the Wedding, they moved to a Commodious House on Society Hill. Though Rebecca was kind enough to say there was Room for me should I tire of my lonely Existence in faraway Boston, I returned Home.

I might have lived in the Rooms above the Apothecary to my Death had the Letter not arrived from Daniel describing how his Wife had been stricken by Miscarriage more than once. Needless to say, poor Rebecca was at Wit's End. Her own Mother being dead, I took it on myself to offer her Solace and perhaps a Remedy to both lift her Spirits and act as a Tonick for her troubled Womb. I sold the Apothecary and sailed down to Philadelphia. At the Bottom of my Son's large Garden was a Cottage where the former Groundskeeper once lived. This became my new Domicile. I did not wish to live in my Son's own House, for young married People need their Privacy and I had no wish to interfere in the Affairs of their Household. But I took my Daughter-in-Law in Hand and it was then that I truly began to love her, for she was like the Girlchild I never had.

I nursed her with all manner of Herbs to strengthen the Womb and encourage Conception: among them were Red Clover Blossom, Peppermint, Nettle Leaves, Raspberry Leaves, Blue and Black Cohosh, False Unicorn Root, Life Root, Partridge Berry, Cramp Bark, and Motherwort. I bade her to walk outdoors with me every Day, taking in the Air in all Weathers. Within a Year, she conceived. I tended her through her Confinement, forbidding the Cook to add Parsley to the Soup. Then she did give birth to a lovely Girl named Arabella, the first of my seven Grandchildren.

It was a happy Time. I lived in my Cottage at the Boundary of the Yard, planted a Garden of Physick Herbs, and doted over each new Baby in turn. In some of the Children, I saw Glimpses of you, May. Benjamin, the firstborn Son, was small, dark, and secretive, so much like Gabriel that I felt my old Loss all over again. I prayed that none of the Children would inherit my own shrill Hair.

The Years passed and even Rebecca's Youth began to fade, her lovely Curls threaded with Silver as her Children grew older. Yet the Years would not rob my Locks of their violent Colour. My own Son teazed me for being a Witch, only half in Jest, I think. Since I lived with them, his Wife never suffered another Miscarriage.

God had blessed us for so many Years, but what is given is also taken away. Six weeks ago, Tragedy visited our House. Many in the Neighbourhood were infected with the Croup, but my youngest Grandson Henry died of it. He was only six, his Mother's Darling.
So distraught was she, I feared she would weep herself dry. Daniel was in a sorry State himself, having used all his Medical Arts to save the Boy, but to no Avail. With both of them paralyzed by Grief, I took it on myself to arrange the Funeral, hiring a French Stonemason to carve the Marker for little Henry's Grave—the first Tombstone in the Ward Lot of the Cemetery. I ordered black Stuff for Mourning Garb and Black Veils for Rebecca, myself, and the Girls. Then I sweated beside the Sempstresses to have it all prepared in time for the Funeral. I ordered the Coffin and hired the Hearse with six black Horses to draw Henry to his final Resting Place.

During the Funeral, Rebecca was so wan, I thought she might faint. I took her one Arm while Arabella held the other. Together we kept her on her Feet. A short while after the Burial, Rebecca recovered. Then I wandered off to find a Moment's Solitude as I often do these Days. Brushing the Veil back from my Face, I threaded a crooked Path between the Headstones in hope that Exercise might ease the Ache in my Head. Soon I arrived at the poorer Section of the Cemetery where I made a Discovery which made me quake with Near-Hysteria. I almost wondered if I suffered an Hallucination.

Though most of the Graves in this Section were simple wooden Crosses, someone had managed to procure a Headstone and on it was carved
Here lyeth May Powers, Spinster and Needlewoman, born in Glouchestershire, England, 1667, died in Philadelphia 1711.
At the Foot of the Grave was a simple clay Vessel filled with White Lilacs, for it was May,
her
Month. My Son found me on my Knees, weeping inconsolably. It took him and his two Sons to lift me off the Ground.

How could this come to pass, May? I found your Body, your Leg in Gabriel's Trap. Or was it another May Powers buried in the Philadelphia Cemetery? How many May Powerses can there be, born in Gloucestershire in 1667? What if it was really you that lay there? What if I had put Gabriel through that Torment only to find that you had escaped him and lived on, far away from him, passing as a Spinster, bearing your own proud Name?

"May Powers," I kept saying. "That's my May."

My secondborn Granddaughter took my Hands. "Don't you know
I'm
your May?" For that was the Name her Parents had given her—May Lucinda Ward.

They took me Home and put me in my Bed. Daniel gave me Wine and then Laudanum, which made me see Visions of you, my Sister, laughing in your embroidered Wedding Gown. And Visions of Gabriel, the Boy I had once sworn I would love forever. I loved him still. Even after Mr. Ward and the Decades of Separation. I do not think a Woman ever recovers from her First Love. Gabriel was branded on me, his Name burning on my Skin. I wondered if he still lived. Part of me, a ghostly Self, still walked at his Side and shared his Blanket.

"Why do you carry on so, Mother?" asked my Son, who was ever ruled by Reason. He looked at me with his Father's Scrutiny. "Surely this is mere Coincidence. What point is there weeping your Eyes out on Account of some dead Stranger?"

H
ANNAH MOVED WITH
a shadow's stealth, dogskin slippers making no noise as she trod the cropped cemetery grass. Daniel and Rebecca did not know of her mission. They would disapprove, would think that, at the age of sixty-six, her good sense had deserted her.

Dressed for mourning, she wore a dove-gray cotton gown with a black neckcloth and a black straw hat. She carried a small bouquet of honesty, which she had cut from her garden before slipping out the back gate. Walking up the aisle of headstones, she felt strangely like a bride—a thought that made her laugh under her breath. May, she remembered, always laughed when confronted with anything too troubling or absurd.

When she reached the grave carved with her lost sister's name, she caught her breath. The white lilacs she had seen there previously were gone, replaced by a posy of heartsease. Her eyes filled when she remembered May's wilderness garden, planted from the seeds she had given May before she left their father's house. Hannah regarded her own bunch of honesty, pale purple flowers tied with black ribbon. She hadn't thought to bring a vase. Untying the ribbon, she arranged the honesty among the heartsease.

The dates carved on the grave informed her that this May Powers had passed away in 1711, twenty-nine years ago. The one who kept bringing flowers must have loved her well. Folding her hands, Hannah tried to pray, but her mind was too unquiet. She wished she had the powers of divination, like Joan. Every morning when she awoke, Hannah had to marvel that she was older by far than Joan had been when she last saw her, older than Father had been when he died. Once she had believed that age would deliver wisdom, but she felt as confounded as ever. If only she could read tea leaves or consult a crystal ball to ascertain the true identity of the woman beneath this grave. If only she possessed the powers of necromancy so she could raise the dead woman's ghost and hear her story.

She yearned for knowledge of Gabriel, too. Did he still wander the forest, as she once had? As much as she tried to imagine him as a man grown old, she could picture him only as the boy to whom she had offered up her heart and soul. Like May, he would never age. While she grew ever older, Gabriel and May would remain eternal as the spring leaves that budded out each year, fresh and new. How she wished she could read the cards, read the patterns in the stars, to learn what had become of them both.

If Daniel knew the shape of her thoughts, he would shake his head and patiently explain that there was no magic, no secret power to be harnessed. He would tell her that she was simply an old woman haunted by her past. Everything outside the circle of Science was a sham, mere superstition, consolation for the ignorant and weak. He would tell her that she should be above such things. Let the feeble-minded mutter over tea leaves and pretend to divine the future. The truth lay elsewhere. Daniel discounted the doctrine of plant signatures and his stepfather's books of astrology and alchemy, even dismissed Galen's teaching of the humors. There were no mystical secrets, he believed; Nature itself could be ordered, neatly labeled in Latin, and explained by rational laws.

She could not prove by logic or rational deduction that this May Powers was her sister. By all rights she should banish the grave from her mind and focus her thoughts on Arabella's wedding the following spring. They were already preparing her trous
seau. But before Hannah could retrace her steps home, her vision clouded. When she closed her eyes, she saw a heart pierced by three arrows.

***

Her granddaughter May kept a pet ferret that was forever getting lost, only to reappear in the garden or cellar, its coat dirty from burrowing. Rebecca didn't like the beast, but May would not be parted from it. She swore that the ferret was better at hunting mice and rats than her sister's lazy cat.

I am like a ferret,
Hannah told herself as she stole off to the cemetery for the second time that week. A dogged creature running down dark tunnels, searching out buried, hidden things. She concealed her bouquet of harebells in the folds of her skirt. Lest the neighbors see her and gossip, she took a roundabout way, heading down back streets and alleys before arriving at the cemetery.

When she reached the grave, she saw that the heartsease and honesty had been removed to make way for a glorious bunch of foxglove. Hannah hesitated before arranging the delicate sprays of harebell around the edge of the clay vessel. Her hands trembled. The foxglove bells shook in the wind.

***

Hannah kept her cemetery vigil. She waited as the foxglove and harebells started to droop. Standing in the shade of a cedar tree, she watched a woman with a bouquet of dark red roses approach the grave. Hannah wondered if this stranger knew that their mother's maiden name had been Thorn. The woman was her own age, even her size—short and small-boned. Watching her take the old flowers from the vase, Hannah noted how delicate her wrists were. Her skin was tawny brown, and the bit of hair peeping from her linen cap was gray. She wore a necklace of glass beads around her throat. Despite her age, there was something girlish in the way she moved. Hannah was willing to bet that if she raised her fawn skirts, her ankles would be as graceful as her wrists.