Tonight a slice of the Universe was offered to me, and I devoured that part of the Heavens that had been apportioned me with a rabid hunger. I was given the Moon; I have looked upon her with a clarity and closeness I never imagined possible. It was magnificent, seen through the great telescope at Cambridge, its luminosity pocked by shadow from the mountains and craters. I imagined that I could feel its power working upon my very blood, pulling me like a tide, great and fearful; and thoughts of tides led me to thoughts of Isaac. How he would be moved by its beauty, and how much better he would be able to describe it, in his language or mine.
I’m to be assigned a job computing the tables of Venus for our nautical almanac. I fear the contract speaks more to the influence of the Bonds than my own mathematical prowess—the ink is barely dry on the publication of “my” comet’s orbit. I cannot as yet write of it without that coy punctuation, in spite of the confirmation. It is Comet Price that shall be recorded.
Dr. Henry from the forthcoming Smithsonian Institute came to supper with us on my final day at Cambridge and said he’s certain I’ll be awarded the King of Denmark’s prize. All of which suggests that I might remain on Nantucket after all until the end of my days. Yet I still feel as if there are two Islands: the one Before—before the comet, before Isaac— and the one After. And they are not the same.
I imagine him upon the deck of the Pearl, lit by the same Moon with which I am now intimately familiar. This thought soothes me as I prepare to sleep.
y the flickering light of a candle, Hannah examined her reflection: with her dark hair flowing loose around her face, the taut geometry of her cheekbones and jaw was softer, making her look less severe. More womanly, she thought. She squinted at the tiny lines etched into her forehead. They seemed to have expanded, like a root system. Maybe the candlelight made her look older. Or maybe twenty-seven
was
old. It was certainly close enough to thirty. In spite of a few grey hairs, though, and the lines in her face, she felt clearer than she had in years, and even she could see that her eyes seemed brighter than they once had, as if the intensity of her work now lit them from within.
She glanced over at her medal, which she’d hung on a peg right beside the mirror. It had only recently arrived, a full three months after she’d learned it would indeed be hers. The gold gleamed in the orange candlelight. The disc was the circumference of a crab apple; she stared at her name, which was inscribed on the front, then reached out and flipped it over.
Not in vain do we watch the setting and rising of the stars.
Every time she looked at the sentence, her mind hovered and lingered on the same word:
we.
It had once seemed as impossible as a hailstorm of diamonds, yet here it was, inscribed in gold. And in ink: notices of her priority had made their way into newspapers up and down the eastern seaboard, resulting in a swell of sudden interest in her company.
I’ve four invitations a week to dine here or there, speak at this or that function, or attend this or that lecture. I’m certain this will delight Mary, but I find it exhausting to even try and decide what to do, much less to do it. I’ve had to hire Millicent Rotch as an assistant, which might be the smartest thing I’ve done in years. Though her mother won’t speak to me and now I have to go elsewhere to buy bread. It’s a small price to pay for Millicent’s help and company, though. Poor Mrs. Riddell has had to assign me an entire cupboard for the mail! As you can imagine she was less than happy about it. A girl wrote to me from California, and another from England; mostly the letters are from ladies in New England, telling me about their own observations. I admit that I quite enjoy reading them, even if I haven’t the time to answer every one. It seems I’ve unwittingly inspired hundreds of members of my Sex—from schoolgirls to wives to widows—to take up their telescopes with due diligence, in hopes of spotting a wanderer of their own. Taken all together, it’s quite unbelievable—and wonderful—if timeconsuming.
By the time she got downstairs, it was nearly six. She found Millicent at the table with a pile of correspondence at her elbow and a cup of tea in her hand. Her cheeks were as pink as they’d been when she was working at the bakery, if slightly less plump. Or maybe she just appeared taller, Hannah thought, watching her from the foot of the stairs, now that she had an occupation of her own choosing and stood up straight. Millicent had turned out to be less a fawning puppy than a tenacious shepherd. Their friendship had been a buoy through the long winter, and Hannah was grateful each day for her continued presence.
“Good morning!” she chirped when she saw Hannah. “I’ve already read half of yesterday’s mail, and I’ve only three questions for you!”
“Only three?” Hannah smiled at how quickly Millicent had dropped her plain speech once she’d left her mother’s employ. Yet she still attended Meeting, though she never mentioned it; Hannah wondered if she’d been subjected to a visit by a committee concerned about her spiritual health when she took the job.
“What are they?”
“One: Do you want to address a convention of lady advocates for women’s suffrage?”
Hannah paused.
“Do I? Where is it? And what do they want me to speak about?”
“It’s in Seneca Falls, New York, and the invitation doesn’t specify what you’re to speak on. It just says you’re one of a number of influential women whose presence would be welcome and whose voice should be heard. And, ah, what else . . .” She shuffled the pages in her hands. “They will be drafting a Declaration of Sentiments on the matter of women’s suffrage.”
Maybe she should attend; women ought to have the vote, of course. But the idea of speaking in public still made her feel like her bones had turned to soup.
“I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“I think they’d benefit enormously from the support of the first female fellow of the American Association of Astronomers.”
“Honorary Member. They crossed out
Fellow
on the certificate, remember?”
“Perhaps they were concerned you’d get the horrifying idea of actually voting at the next annual meeting,” Millicent said, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms.
“Point taken. What if I sent along a statement of support? I do want to help the cause, but I don’t feel prepared to make a speech on the matter.”
“I think it’s a good first step. I’ll add that you’ll attend if your schedule permits. It’s more than a year from now.”
Before Hannah could object, Millicent plowed ahead.
“Two: Might you consider making a donation to the Society for Betterment of Widows and Orphans?”
“I shall do so the moment I’m in a position to. Regrets.”
“I assumed as much. Three: There are two more young ladies who wish to join our lessons.”
“That’s truly excellent,” Hannah said, making a swift calculation of the extra income. Mrs. Hatter had already joined Millicent’s astronomy sessions. As it turned out, teaching women was fun. They were diligent, and meticulous, and practically worshipped the material as Hannah herself had, though of course each lesson reminded her of Isaac. Thanks to him, her methodology had changed as well: rather than focus exclusively on mathematics, she now allowed time in each session for the students to study the skies without a specific task before them, simply to appreciate the majesty of the Heavens with their own eyes. To experience wonder. To imagine what they might behold someday.
“How did they learn of them, though? I’ve not advertised.”
Millicent cleared her throat and shuffled the papers as if she’d lost a page.
“The more the merrier!” Mrs. Hatter had come into the kitchen without Hannah or Millicent noticing, and she dropped onto the bench opposite Millicent. “Is there hot water?” Her husband had retreated to Boston weeks earlier, but she’d decided to stay on and “get a feel for the place off- season,” as she put it
.
Secretly, Hannah thought she wanted to be free of his dour face and mood. But it didn’t matter: Mrs. Hatter helped keep the house and, Hannah had to admit, lightened the atmosphere on Millicent’s days off. When Hannah was alone on Little India Street, no matter how late she worked or how quickly she took her meals, it was impossible to escape her memories. So she was glad for the company, which eased the burden of her loneliness. Often the three women ate together. As Hannah breathed in the delicious warmth of the lamplit kitchen and the smell of the fresh bread Millicent had baked, she wondered if this was what it would have been like to have sisters, and an unfamiliar longing for the mysteries of girlhood rose in her chest. Had she grown up with the warmth of a mother or sisters, would she have learned to feel sooner, before it was too late?
She still had not heard a word from Isaac, and she wondered again and again what the reason was for his silence. Had he not received her letters? Or had he decided that corresponding with her was not worth his time— meaning that she’d failed to communicate her feelings yet again?
There was no use in regretting what could not be, though. These women were here now; all she could do was cleave to what they offered and focus on her work.
“Here’s a letter you’ll want to read,” Millicent said, handing off a folded page to Hannah.
Hannah scanned the brief lines quickly:
On behalf of the entire Coast Survey, I wish to express my pride in our association with the lady astronomer (and in myself for recognizing her talent). I offer my sincere congratulations to the tireless comet-seeker, and look forward to our ongoing connection. We are in hopes that she shall discover more Celestial objects, and again be the first of her Sex to do so.
Warmest regards,
Alexander Dallas Bache
Superintendent, United States Coast Survey
“That’s kind of him,” Hannah stammered, her hands shaking as if he were declaiming his pride to a roomful of peers instead of in a humble note meant for her eyes only. Dr. Bache was the architect of a national project of immense scale and importance; she was amazed that he’d taken the time to write to her. She could barely contain her pride as she folded the note and put it in her pocket: tonight she’d post it on the wall beside her medal, as a reminder of how far she had come.
“There’s one other thing,” Millicent said, twirling a bit of string in her fingers. “There’s a note from Dr. Hall here.”
She handed a brown folded note with a wax seal to Hannah.
“I didn’t read it . . . but I recall his handwriting from school.” She shivered, and Hannah nodded in sympathy. She remembered those eviscerating notes that he had sent to students he’d deemed unprepared or lazy, though she’d never received one herself.
Hannah stared down at her name in his tight script. She never discussed—and tried not to think about—how much Dr. Hall had wounded her. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day she’d gone to him for help and discovered his betrayal. Her official disownment from Meeting had been certified with his signature, like an angry black scar. What could he have to say to her now?
When Hannah looked up, Millicent had busied herself with the correspondence again, as if she knew that Hannah would need a moment to compose her thoughts and her face. She had excellent instincts to go along with her mathematical skills. Hannah tucked the note into her pocket.
“Shall we go over the revisions for the article?”
Millicent nodded, and they bent their heads together over the document.
It was several hours before Hannah felt ready to read the note from Dr. Hall. During a pause in their work, she slipped through the kitchen door to the garden and sat on the cold stone bench under the mulberry tree. The chill of the stone under her thighs reminded her of his duplicity, which was as she wanted it; she didn’t want to be confused by her memories of the Dr. Hall who’d lectured and tutored and challenged her. The Dr. Hall who’d introduced her to the ideas of Le Verrier and Mary Somerville, who’d shown her how maths unlocked the mysteries of the Heavens in ways that observing could not. Without that Dr. Hall, Hannah would have remained an assistant to her father; with his help, she had become . . . well, what was she, exactly?
She sat with the folded square in her hands as if it carried the weight of the Universe entire.
I’m an astronomer,
she thought.
I’m a computer for the
Nautical Almanac
. I’m a teacher.
But she still felt herself a student, a striver. Dr. Hall had proven to be selfish and weak, but a whisper of doubt crept in as she sat outside in the chilly late September afternoon. Hannah blew on her hands and then broke the seal and unfolded the note, the sticky weight of uncertainty making her clumsy.
Dear Hannah,
I hope that this note finds thee well, and not too preoccupied by thy
successes to maintain thy studies. Even the greatest thinkers did make
time for the expansion of knowledge, to add to their arsenal of wisdom! I write now in my official capacity as Trustee of the Board of
Directors of our beloved Atheneum. In recognition of thy many years of
devoted service, I’m very happy to report that we have of late voted a unanimous resolution to offer thee the position of Head Curator. The unfortunate failure to offer thee a place in the rebuilding was an oversight that is much regretted now; I’m certain that thee is familiar enough with the workings of Organizations to understand how such an omission might have come to pass. In any case, I remain thy devoted admirer, and hope that the position is one that will suit. The salary of course will be
commensurate with thy vast experience.
If thee is amenable, I would like to come and explain more about the
position at thy earliest convenience.
Respectfully &c.,
D. Hall
Hannah read the note through two times, then carefully folded it and put it back in her pocket. She wrapped her arms around herself; the chill had become unpleasant. But she stayed where she was, under the tree that had stood in her garden as long as she could remember. It was the tree Isaac had climbed when he came to see her his last night on Nantucket; it was the tree she’d wept under when she woke the next morning, with Isaac gone and the Town in ruins around her. The small branches quivered with a gust of wind, but no leaves dropped like portents to tell her what to do.