Hannah and I looked at each other, alarmed.
Just then a rumble of thunder sounded that shook the foundation of the hotel. A window shattered somewhere upstairs. The lights flickered and the room blinked into darkness. The last of the lantern light disappeared into the kitchen.
All three of us bolted after the group.
The basement was hushed and dim and musty smelling. People sat on the dusty floor, huddled around the glow of lanterns and candelabras. Children curled into their mothers’ laps and went back to sleep. I joined a circle of people around an old gas lamp. Somewhere a man with a deep and gentle voice sang a few verses of a hymn.
If, on a quiet sea, toward Heaven we calmly sail, With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee, We’ll own the favoring gale, With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee, We’ll own the favoring gale.
But should the surges rise, and rest delay to come, Blest be the tempest, kind the storm, Which drives us nearer home, Blest be the tempest, kind the storm, Which drives us nearer home.
Teach us, in every state, to make Thy will our own; And when the joys of sense depart, To live by faith alone, And when the joys of sense depart, To live by faith alone.
His voice eased the fear out of me and I dozed, leaning against a cobweb-covered wall. Mrs. Harrington and Hannah stood for a long time, not wishing to soil their clothes, but after an hour they gave up and sat. I was dimly aware of Hannah’s hip touching mine—we were crowded together down there and the proximity was oddly comforting. Mrs. Harrington’s quiet complaints drifted into my sleep and mixed with the words of the hymn that floated in my mind: Blest be the tempest, kind the storm, which drives us nearer home.
It was nearly dawn when the stately cormorant woke us with the news that the storm had ended and we could return to our rooms. Sleepily, we picked our way through the graying darkness, avoiding the glass and hailstones that littered the carpet. He, the bellboy who had watched over us all night, found us extra blankets in case a chill came into our rooms through broken windows, in case our blankets were wet with rain.
I don’t remember walking into my room, or undressing, or getting into bed. Sleep took me before I found my pillow.
When I awoke, the sun was high in a bright blue sky. Disoriented, I took in first the tangle of my sheets, then the closed windows. I rose, meaning to open them—why were they shut? It was only when my toes found wet carpet that I remembered the storm. The panic. The danger. The way joy and adventure had turned to terror in an instant. I shivered.
I wrapped my dressing gown around me and tied the sash, then opened both windows wide and surveyed the damage.
The hail had melted in the sun, but the grass was strewn with tree branches and debris. Outside the north window, the maple tree looked haggard. Its leaves were tattered, torn to bits by the hail, and wounds on its bark showed that it had lost many small branches during the night. The sky had been scrubbed clean and now arched brilliantly overhead. The plants, though messy, were a lush green from all the rain, and the lake gleamed like it had never seen the sun before. The heaviness in the air had lifted and the breeze off the lake was almost cool. The morning felt new.
So did I.
The Harringtons, on the other hand, looked terrible. After lunch (which was our breakfast), they retired to their rooms to rest. The hotel was in disarray, with wet carpets and broken windows and a messy yard and no electricity, so it seemed like as good a time as any to get out of there. “I’m taking a walk,” I said as the Harringtons headed off to their rooms. “I’ll be back in time to wake you for supper.”
Mrs. Harrington simply nodded and closed her door, too tired to spout opinions about the best walking paths or to caution me about places to avoid.
I tucked my new handkerchief into my pocket, silently thanking the blue jay I’d embroidered on it just the day before for his help in bringing the sky back—no matter his method of doing it. Then I set off out the door and down the front steps.
But where to go? The park, of course. My heart skipped with anticipation.
I followed the curve of the shoreline south toward the amusement park, but as soon as it was in sight, I knew something was wrong. The rides weren’t running. The park was closed.
The storm. They must have repairs to do. I’ll have to go another day.
Then I remembered my letter: the job! I didn’t have permission to job hunt yet, but there was no harm in looking. I’d head off into town to have a peek at the local businesses. That way, when Mother’s letter came in a few days, I’d be ready.
But first, a stroll along the shore. My heart greeted that wide expanse of lake like an old friend. This trip to the country felt suddenly like a homecoming, even though I was far from home.
As I approached the docks, I saw it. A proud, dark profile perched on a wooden post that stuck out of the water, a piece of a sunken dock. No, I wasn’t imagining the bird, it was real: a double-crested cormorant. Just as calm and as stately as I’d remembered. My scissors flew without sense—as if by faith alone.
With the silhouette in my pocket and the hymn on my lips, I followed the road into town.
Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
(Archilochus colubris)
Mother’s letter arrived four days after my stroll through the picturesque little town, four days after I’d wandered along the row of brick storefronts dreaming of what it might be like to work in one of the shops. I’d spent the days after that trip waiting and worrying and getting my hopes up and then forcing them down again. I was sure, one minute, that she’d send an enthusiastic “yes” and let me work anywhere I pleased. The next minute, I was positive she’d laugh at my request and I’d be spending the whole summer on needlepoint and small talk—even more confined than I would’ve been at home in the city under Mother’s watchful eye.
But when the letter found me, sitting at supper in the dining room with the Harringtons, it contained both good news and bad. “I am glad to hear that the Galpin is comfortable and you are all settled in with the Harringtons,” she wrote. “They are so generous for watching over you this summer.” Next came news of Father, who she enthusiastically claimed was “on the mend.” My heart soared at the idea that this summer experiment might actually help bring him back. Then Mother digressed into a recitation of mundane reports from home and passed along greetings from Aunt Rachel and Rachel’s companion, Sarah. Then, finally, she addressed the job question:
I’m sure you are anxious to know my decision on the topic of your letter, so I won’t delay further. I have considered your suggestion of employment and I’ve decided I will allow it. It is important for a young woman with your amount of energy to remain occupied. I have written to Mrs. Harrington to ask her to find you some small job that suits your position and education. She has connections in the town there, and I trust she can set you up with something you will find enjoyable—perhaps you could be a companion to a child of a wealthy family. Any wages you earn can help with your room and board at the hotel, less a little bit of spending money if you wish.
Companion
