A Distant Shore (14 page)

Tears pricked Harriet’s eyes and she nodded, her throat too tight and her heart to full to manage words. “Aye,” she said. “I trust it as well.”

Boston, 1838

It had been an entire fortnight since Isobel had written to Mr. Anderson of the Commissioners for Foreign Missions, and she had not had a single reply, a fact that filled her with both relief and irritation. She realized she had been foolish to think that a suitable candidate for husband would present himself immediately, and yet placing her name on that list had felt so monumental a decision that it was dispiriting not to have an immediate response.

And, in her most private and pained moments, Isobel wondered if a candidate would choose her at all. The thought of the humiliation she would experience if it were ever to be made known that she’d put her name on such a list and
not
been chosen made her insides writhe in an agony of anticipated embarrassment.

After two weeks she started to think nothing would ever happen. She would turn thirty years old in a few weeks; what man would choose such a spinster, especially if he wanted children? She pushed all thoughts of mission work or marriage out of her mind and attempted to concentrate on her work with the First School.

It was a balmy evening in late June when she returned home to find a letter addressed to her on the silver salver by the front door. Her heart bumped in her chest and she tore it open, heedless of how she ripped the envelope. Quickly she scanned the lines and her heart stopped bumping and seemed to freeze instead. Mr. Anderson had a possible candidate and wished to see her at her earliest convenience—preferably tomorrow.

At four o’clock the next afternoon Isobel presented herself to the office where she’d had that first wretched interview. She was even more nervous now, and she knew it made her seem haughtier than ever, her only defense against embarrassment. She spoke coolly to Mr. Anderson’s clerk and declined his offer of tea. When Mr. Anderson came to the door, Isobel swept past him, her head held high.

“Miss Moore. Thank you for attending me so quickly.”

She nodded regally, her throat too tight to form words. She knew her behavior bordered on rudeness, but she realized, to her own shame, that she would rather Mr. Anderson think her rude than pitiable.

“A situation has arisen,” Mr. Anderson said, folding his hands on his desk and looking at her over the rim of his spectacles.

“Indeed?”

“There is a young man, a God-fearing, studious and earnest young man.” She nodded even as her face drained of color. He was talking about her potential
husband
. “He wishes to take a wife.”

She swallowed. “I see.”

Mr. Anderson straightened his cravat, suddenly seeming hesitant, almost nervous. “Generally, in these situations, we simply make an introduction. There is a period of courtship of at least two months, and then, God willing, a marriage. After a couple has been married some time, preferably at least for a month, an appointment is made in the missionary field.”

“Is that not the case in this instance, Mr. Anderson?”

He seemed almost relieved that she grasped the particulars so quickly. “Indeed it is not, Miss Moore. For you see, this young man is already in the mission field. He left three years ago, before we made the provision that all missionaries must be married.”

“I see,” Isobel said after a moment, even though she did not. How could she marry a man who was already abroad?

“When he first wrote last year, I suggested that he return to this country and find himself a wife. But the fact of the matter is he is reluctant to leave his important work, and travel takes so much time. He would be gone for more than a year. Considering your own situation, it seemed perhaps a solution could be found.”

Isobel blinked, trying to make sense of his words.
Considering your own situation
. He meant, she realized with an icy ripple of humiliation, her age. She was too old to wait around to see if this nameless man and she would suit.

“What,” she asked, swallowing dryly, “do you suggest?”

“You could travel to where he is,” Mr. Anderson said, as though it were obvious. “As it happens, another missionary’s wife is making the journey, as she had to return to America to see to her children’s schooling. She could accompany you.”

One hand flew to Isobel’s throat as if of its own accord. “Travel as an unmarried woman?” she said, the shock evident in her voice. She had never considered such a thing.

“It would be suitable,” Mr. Anderson answered. “You would have a companion, a chaperone.”

“Even so… I imagined I would have the opportunity to meet the man I was going to marry, Mr. Anderson, before I embarked on such an arduous journey!” She spoke sharply, as if she were rebuking him, but Mr. Anderson remained calm, a courteous smile still on his face. Isobel stared at him, her heart starting to beat rather wildly. “Really, I must say, this is not at all what I expected. It is quite out of the ordinary.”

“Indeed it is, Miss Moore.”

“Are there—are there no other men, missionaries, who might wish to arrange an introduction? Who are in this country?” One hand fluttered again at her throat as she fought to keep herself from flushing bright red from the humiliation of the question. She failed.

“I am afraid no other men have… expressed an interest.”

“I see.” And she did see, all too well. She had no idea how many women had put their name on that wretched list, but clearly hers was at the bottom of it. A thirty-year-old spinster, one who had expressed no interest in missions, only in marriage. Someone who must smack of desperation to the godly young men perusing the names. Tears stung Isobel’s eyes and she blinked them back rapidly. “Where is this man?” she asked when she’d composed herself sufficiently to sound brisk once more.

“He is presently in Burma,” Mr. Anderson said and Isobel could not think to reply.
Burma?
Where Adorniam Judson had come from, and yet she’d never actually thought
she
would go to such a faraway place.

“And this man’s name?” she finally asked in a whisper.

“George Jamison.”

“A Scot.”

“Of Scottish ancestry, yes, but he was born in America. His family is from Philadelphia, and he studied theology at Yale.”

“I see.”
George Jamison
. The name echoed in her head, meaningless and yet incredible. Perhaps the name of her future husband.
Isobel Jamison
, she thought, and felt a strange, shivery sort of thrill.

“As for your arrival, of course you would need to marry Mr. Jamison as soon as possible. It is quite unsuitable for you to remain in that country as an unmarried woman. Quite impossible.”

“And—and if we don’t suit?” Isobel asked. She realized she was clutching the wooden arm rests of her chair so hard her knuckles were white, and she released them, sitting back as she tried to relax.

“That would be difficult,” Mr. Anderson answered after a moment. “Burma is no place for an unmarried lady. You could return on another ship, of course, but it might be months before you could find a suitable passage. In any case,” he continued with a gentle smile, “that does not seem to be a desirable outcome.”

“No,” Isobel agreed faintly. Return to Boston unwed? She would rather remain in Burma and cast her lot with George Jamison, whoever he might be.

“He has written a letter,” Mr. Anderson offered carefully. “He entrusted it to me, when I suggested that I select one of the young ladies from our list. If you read it, you might feel as if you know him a bit more.”

A letter. A single letter. “Yes,” Isobel said. “I suppose that is true.”

“And if you decide you wish to pursue this course of action,” Mr. Anderson continued, “we will make preparations for you to sail to India, and then on to Burma.”

India. Burma. Isobel felt the room spin dizzily around her and she blinked, willed the world to right itself. She could not faint in Mr. Anderson’s office. He handed her a single sheet of paper, folded and sealed with wax, which she took with nerveless fingers. “And when would you expect me to sail?”

“A ship leaves Boston for Calcutta next week,” he told her, and the world spun again. “I would hope to see you on that ship.”

South Pacific, 1838

“Captain!”

Henry walked as briskly as he could over to his navigator, Mr. Ellison, who had had his spyglass trained on the flat line of the horizon. They had been dead in the water for three days, and the men were down to half-rations. Skin was blistered and peeling, tongues swollen and dry. The heat had not relented, and the air remained unbearably still.

“What is it, Mr. Ellison?”

“I believe I see something, sir.”

Hope leapt in his chest. “Permit me?” Henry asked, holding his hand out, and the navigator handed him the instrument.

It took him a moment to find it, but then he saw a faint black smudge on the horizon. A ship or a cloud? It was impossible to say. “Continue to observe,” Henry said briskly, “and inform me of any movements.”

With an encouraging smile for his men, he returned to his quarters and the letter he’d been writing to Margaret, the last letter, perhaps, that he might ever write. He had no idea if she would ever even see it, but writing to her made him feel closer to her, and he needed that now. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he dipped his quill in the inkpot and began to write.

We have food enough but water only for two more days, a few more if we are sparing. I pray that we might yet be rescued from this calamity, but my heart fails within me, my dearest, without you near me to bolster my spirits...

Sighing, Henry laid the quill down and pushed the inkpot away. He wanted his last words—if they were indeed his last words—to Margaret to be ones of love and encouragement, not fear and desperation, yet he did not think he was capable of it now. Anxiety gnawed at his gut and he raked a hand through his stiff, salt-encrusted hair.

“Captain!” Henry turned to see his first mate at the door.

“Mr. Martin?”

“It is a ship, sir, it is a ship!”

Henry rose from the table and hurried to the deck. Mr. Ellison wordlessly handed him the spyglass and he stared at the now-visible form of a ship. But what kind of ship? And from what country?