Page 2 of The Salamander

Reverend Diman’s eyebrows rose. “You would go to sea?”

Jon’s gaze drifted to little Hannah across the room, clutching her mother’s locket as though it were a lifebuoy. “It’s in my blood, Reverend,” he said finally, forcing the words. “My grandfather and uncle were both captains…”

“Who is to be the captain on the Tyrannicide?” asked Mary Diman.

“John Fisk, son of Reverend Samuel Fisk.”

“Of course,” said Diman with a knowing glance at his wife. “He was pastor of the First Church in Salem until he died some years ago. It’s a good family. John, the son, has much experience as a seafaring merchant.”

“John and I are of an age,” said Jon, “just past thirty. But his experience as a master mariner with his own ships will allow me to learn much serving under him.”

“If that is to be your decision,” said Mary Diman, “and I can see from the look in your eyes it is your heart’s desire, then I have a proposition for you.”

Jon narrowed his eyes on Mary Diman with sudden interest.

“You will need a governess for young Hannah and eventually for Polly, too. A nursemaid will not do. You need a young lady educated and trained in the graces, who loves children.”

“You know such a paragon?” asked Jon.

Mary Diman exchanged a smile with her husband. “I do. I would like to recommend our daughter, Eunice Mason, widowed a year ago when her husband of one year drowned. She is well-read, trained in domestic duties and sings hymns that soothe even the wildest child. Like you, she is in mourning.”

Jon’s brows drew together. “Martha’s capable, and Silas handles odd jobs, but a governess…I’d feel easier knowing my girls had a young woman’s care, one you raised, Mrs. Diman.”

“Trust me, Jon,” said the reverend’s wife, “you’ll be glad she’s in your home. And Eunice needs a purpose. We’ll guide her if needed.”

“Providence guides us, I can see,” said the reverend.

John Fisk approached, his face grim. “Jon, you have my sympathy for Hannah’s loss. Still, I cannot hide the news. The British are raiding our coast. It’s time to end your militia duties. I need you on the Tyrannicide. She’s at the Salisbury Shipyard now and should be here soon. I will send word when she arrives.”

Jon’s gaze drifted past him to the mourners, their voices soft and respectful in the dim light of the room. The name of the ship stirred something in him, a familiar pull, but grief still pressed heavy on his chest. He took a slow breath before answering. “I thank you for the news, John. But not today.”

Fisk’s brow furrowed. “I understand. Yet the fight for liberty will not wait for our grief to ease.”

Jon’s gaze shifted past Fisk to where Hannah stood across the room, clutching her locket. Her golden hair caught the light, so like her mother’s. He felt the familiar ache sharpen, then steadied himself. “Then send word when she’s here,” he said at last. “I will come.”

Even as he spoke, he felt the sea’s call, constant like the tide, but muffled, as though he heard through the soil of the grave.

TWO DAYS AFTER the funeral, the Haraden house on Charter Street lay hushed. The murmur of mourners had faded, replaced by creaking floorboards and gulls wheeling above the harbor. Jonathan sat at his oak table in his study, a militia dispatch before him, the inked lines unread. His pen hovered over the dispatch, unmoving. From somewhere deep in his memory, her laugh rose like a gull’s cry on a summer wind…and was gone.

Sitting nearby, Hannah’s head bent over a book, her golden hair a painful echo of her mother’s, while Polly babbled to old Silas who crouched next to her cradle. Martha’s cod chowder scented the air, but the kitchen was quiet.

A knock stirred Jon. Opening the door, he found Mary Diman, no longer dressed in black but a dark blue dress and a red Kashmir shawl, a young woman beside her. The resemblance between them was plain, the same brown hair and eyes, the same composed bearing. But the younger green muslin gown and plain bonnet lent her a quiet reserve. Eunice Mason, widowed by the sea’s cruelty, stood with hands clasped, as if bracing herself.

“Lieutenant Haraden,” Mrs. Diman said, “I’ve come to introduce you to my daughter, Eunice, who we spoke of as governess for your girls.”

Mrs. Mason offered a shy smile, like a gentle doe unsure of herself.

Jon inclined his head. “Mrs. Diman, Mrs. Mason. Please come in.”

The young woman followed her mother inside.

Hannah looked up, her book forgotten.

Silas rose and bowed to the ladies. “Beggin’ your pardon, I’ll just let Martha know we have company.”

Polly stopped babbling and began to fuss. Eunice knelt beside the cradle, humming a hymn. The melody wrapped through the room like a thread of calm. Polly quieted, her tiny hand curling around Mrs. Mason’s finger. Gratitude pricked through Jon’s daze. Those gentle brown eyes met his, soft with understanding, before turning to Hannah.

“I am happy to meet you, Hannah.”