As the ropes secured us, I looked upon the dock and—with a beating heart—saw my family among the waiting throng. There were my father and mother, brother and sister, all searching up for me. They were as I remembered them, prim, overdressed despite the dreadful summer heat.
My mother was in a full skirt the color of dark green with a maroon shawl about her shoulders and a bonnet covering most of her severely parted hair. My father, the very image of a man of property, was frock-coated, vested, top-hatted, his muttonchops a gray bristle. My brother and sister were but little miniatures of them.
Truly, I was glad to see them. And yet, I found that I struggled to hold back tears.
Farewells to the crew were all too brief, carefully restrained. The real good-byes had been spoken the night before. Tears from Barlow, a gruff hug from Fisk, kisses to my cheeks from Ewing—«You’re my mermaid now, lass,” he whispered—an offer (with a sly grin) of a splicing knife from Grimes—refused—a round of rum toasted by Foley, topped out with three “Huzzahs!” from all. Then came the final midnight watch with Zachariah—during which time he held my hand and I, unable to speak, struggled to keep my tumbling emotions within.
Now I marched down the gangway into the careful embrace of both my parents. Even my brother, Albert, and sister, Evelina, offered little more than sighlike kisses that barely breathed upon my face.
We settled into the family carriage.
“Why is Charlotte’s dress so tattered?” Evelina asked.
“It was a difficult voyage, dearest,” my mother answered for me.
“And her gloves are so dirty,” Albert chimed in.
“Albert!” Papa reproved him.
But then, after we’d gone on apace in silence, my mother said, “Charlotte, your face is so very brown.”
“The sun was hot, Mama.”
“I would have thought you’d stay in your cabin,” she chided, “reading edifying tracts.”
Only the clip-clop of the horses could be heard. I looked past the brim of my bonnet. I found my father’s eyes hard upon me as if plumbing secrets. I cast down my eyes.
“A difficult voyage, my dear?” he asked at last. “You were dismasted.”
“There was a terrible storm, Papa,” I said, appealing to him with my eyes. “Even Fisk . . . the sailors called it one of the worst they’d ever experienced. We lost the captain. And the first mate.”
“God in his mercy ...” I heard Mama whisper.
“Well, yes, I’m sure,” my father offered. “But one must be careful about the words we choose, Charlotte. It’s well-known that sailors have an unhealthy tendency toward exaggeration. I look forward to reading a more sober account in your journal. You did keep it as you were bidden, did you not?”
“Yes, Papa.” My heart sank. I had completely forgotten he would want to see what I’d written.
“I’m greatly desirous of reading it.” He wagged a finger at me playfully. “But mind, I shall be on the lookout for spelling mistakes!”
Then, thank heavens, Albert and Evelina insisted upon telling me about our fine house on Benevolent Street.
It was bigger than I remembered. Great columns graced the doorway. Huge draped windows—like owl eyes—faced the street. Its full two stories put me in mind of an English fortress.
Then we were safely inside, standing in the large foyer before the grand stairway. It seemed immense to me. And dark. Cut off—after so many days—from sun and air.
With my father looking on, Mama gently removed my bonnet. When she saw my mangled hair, she gasped.
“Charlotte,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Lice,” I heard myself saying. One of the few explanations I’d rehearsed.
She gasped again and before I could restrain her, took up my hands in pity. “Poor girl,” she whispered. “Such awfulness.” Even as she stood there, holding my hands, a strange look passed across her face. Slowly she turned my hands over, gazed at the palms, then touched them with her fingertips. “And your hands?” she asked in horror. “They are so . . . hard.”
“I . . . I had to do my own washing, Mama.”
“Dear Charlotte, I am so frightfully sorry.”
“Mother,” Papa suddenly said, “perhaps we should move on to our breakfast together.” He offered me his arm. I took it gratefully.
We walked into the dining room. The table was laid with white cloth, fine china-plate and silver. Breaking from father I started to sit.
“Let your mother sit first, my dear,” I heard him murmur.
As we began to eat, my father said, “Am I to understand, Charlotte, as the shipping agent informed me, that those other families, the ones who had promised to be with you during the voyage, never fulfilled their pledge?”
“No, Papa,” I answered. “They never came to the ship.”
“How dreadfully lonely for you,” my mother said, shaking her head sadly.
“Two months with no one to talk to!” Evelina exclaimed.
“Of course I talked, silly.”
“But—to whom?” Albert asked in puzzlement.
“The men. The sailors.”
“The men, Charlotte?” my mother said with a frown.
“Well, you see . . .”
“You mean the captain, do you not Charlotte?” my father suggested.
“Oh, no, not just him, Papa. You see, a ship is so small . . .”
Suddenly my father interjected, “We seem to be lacking butter.”
“I’ll get it!” I said, pushing back my chair.
“Charlotte, sit!” my father barked. He turned to the maid who was waiting near by. “Mary, butter.”
The maid curtsied and went out.
When I turned back around I found my sister staring at me.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I just thought of what you look like!” Evelina said.
“What?”
She wrinkled her nose. “An Indian!”
Albert laughed.
“Children!” my father cried. With much effort Albert and Evelina sat still.
“Charlotte,” I heard my mother ask, “how did you pass your time?”
“Mama, you have no idea how much work there is on . . .”
My father abruptly took out his watch. “It’s much later than I thought,” he said. “Evelina and Albert have their lesson in the nursery. Miss Van Rogoff, their tutor, will be waiting. Children.”
Now struggling to suppress their giggles, Albert and Evelina rose from their seats.
“You may go now,” my father said to them.
Once they had gone, the room became very quiet. My mother was looking at me as if I were a stranger. My father’s gaze was his most severe.
“The sailors were very kind to me,” I offered. “I could hardly be expected ...”
“You must be fatigued,” he cut in. “I think some rest would do you some good.”
“I’m very awake Papa. I mean, I’ve grown used to very little sleep, and ...”
“Charlotte,” he insisted, “you are tired and wish to go to your room.”
“But—”
“Charlotte, you mustn’t contradict your father,” my mother whispered.
I rose from my seat. “I don’t know where my room is,” I said.
“Mary,” my father called. “Ask Bridget to come in.”
Mary appeared in a moment with another maid, a girl not very much older than I.
“Bridget,” my father said, “take Miss Charlotte to her room. Help her with her bathing and change of clothes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bridget led the way. My room was on the right side of the house on the second floor. Its windows faced the rear garden where a trellis of roses were in radiant bloom. I stood at the windows, gazing down on the earth and flowers and told myself again and again, “This is home. This is home.”