The Ghost of the Mary Celeste by Valerie Martin Read Free Book Online

didn’t notice.
    This morning in the post there was a letter for me from Captain Benjamin Briggs, passed into the mailbag at Messina. Why such excitement beneath my ribs? I carried it home, left the others on the hall table, and hurried up to my room to open it in secret.
    A letter, if I may call it that. It is a single page with a simple drawing of the artist standing in the prow of his ship, his face raised to a circlet of stars in the heavens above. At the bottom in an admirably neat hand is written SALLIE’S MUSIC GUIDES ME HOME .
    To think of him, in the night, amid the dark, pummeling waves, taking his position from distant stars, recalling our charming comparison, then, perhaps before sleep, pulling a sheet from his drawer, a pen from his holder, and sketching this delightful drawing, this dear message. After that, folding it, addressing the envelope, adding it to the stack destined for the mailbag. How this touches me!
    And how I shall treasure it, and also hide it away. Not to be shared.
    But how will I reply? I cannot draw.
    We passed this day at church and I here testify that Rev. Huntress’s sermons could bring sweet slumber to a herd of wild beasts. Hannah and I kept ourselves upright by frequent exchanges of pained glances, which became so intense that we had hard duty to keep from laughter. Father, who was sitting behind the speaker, did not fail to notice our amusement and sent a mighty frown our way. On the walk home we were privileged with a private sermon on the virtue of sobriety. Hannah listened, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed, as if she were being offered distasteful medicine. She’s fine, I tell myself, she’s a little petulant sometimes, but she’s also affectionate and playful. She’s returned to ordinary life and she balks at the change, because it is so … ordinary.
    Stars, as they make their rounds
    Confound the world with stories
    Of archers, bears, and hounds
,
    Of heroes and their glories
.
    Why won’t they sing of homely cares
,
    Of darning socks and shelling peas
,
    Of she who sews and watches there
    For one who sails upon the seas?
    Well, it’s not wonderful and there is a false rhyme, but perhaps my cousin will see past my clumsiness to the true sentiment.
    And I’ll wager I spent more time on it than he did on his drawing.
    I made a fair copy of my poem and put it in an envelope, then walked to Rose Cottage to get an address from my aunt. She was in the yard passing linens through the wringer, and her expressionwhen she saw me was not entirely one of delight. Father has told me that she suffers from pains in her joints, so I took that to be the source of the paucity of her greeting. “Is all well at your house?” she asked as I approached.
    “Very well,” I replied. “May I help you with your washing?”
    Her expression softened, but she refused my offer. “That’s kind of you,” she said. “But I’ve my own way of doing it and no one can suit me but myself.”
    An odd answer, I thought, also not a particularly gracious one. And why did she imagine I’d come with bad news?
    “And how is your poor sister?” she asked next.
    “She’s well. She misses Natie, I think.”
    “Why does she refuse to accept God’s will? It bodes ill for her.”
    “Oh,” I said. “I think she’ll come round to it soon enough.” My aunt is a puzzle to me. One can’t deny that she is a devoted, even a fierce, Christian, but her entire apprehension of God’s will is that it is inscrutable and must be submitted to without comment or question. Perhaps she’s right, but is it wrong for Hannah to miss the orphan she cared for? In what way does her sadness affect the God who has bereaved her? I can’t make any sense of it.
    “Whom the lord loveth, he chasteneth,” my aunt concluded.
    “Exactly,” I agreed, though I didn’t agree at all. “I’ve come to see if you have an address for a letter to Benjamin. He sent me such a kind note and I’d like to reply before he gets