Homeland by Barbara Hambly Page A

to be insatiable. I am generally the last one left, and sometimes write with a pillow-slip draped over my head like a hood, in which ridiculous attitude I sit now, dear, dear Susie, aching shoulders and all.
    The cod-fleet has gone out again, and Papa has not found a man yet. I wanted solitude, and quiet, to re-read what you wrote of my father-in-law, and the death of my husband’s mother. I will admit that Mr. Poole’s letter surprised me, in both its erudition (for in person he makes a Spartan look like a chatterbox) and in its kindliness. Even as I write those words, I remember how difficult Elizabeth Bennet finds it, to reconcile Mr. Darcy’s cold haughtiness—or Mr. Wickham’s facile charm—with the truth, until more information is received. This gives me pause with regard to my father-in-law, and his estrangement from his son. As Miss Bennet did
not
do—to her sorrow—I will withhold my judgement, and wait upon events. I will say, things seem to be much simpler in the Bible, where men are good or bad, than in one of Miss Austen’s novels!
W EDNESDAY , J ULY 9
    Oliver has gone. It is the time of year when the girls go over to Isle au Haut “a-plummin’”—that is, gathering blackberries, a task with which I will not be able to help, nor with the making of the jam. Tomorrow I begin my career as a teacher. Isle au Haut stands six miles farther out to sea than Deer Isle, and is so primitive as to make Deer Isle appear cosmopolitan. I’ll cross back and forth every day with Will Kydd (“If you can stand the thought of sailing with a Copperhead,” sneers Elinor). Elinor, who is still nursing Columbia, promises she will look after sweet little Mercy Susanna, as well. I’ve always gotten on well with Will Kydd, and I would rather that arrangement, than board on the island five days a week, and only see my beloved treasure Saturday evenings and Sundays. Before last Friday, I have not been away from Mercy for more than a few minutes at a time. There is no pleasure on Earth comparable to holding her in my arms, to bathing her, changing her (now you know I have gone insane!), touching her tiny hands and feet. And yet, I find the thought of going off to work each day—of earning money to help my family—fills me with an unladylike relish that is almost savage.
    Thank you, dearest friend, for your kind thoughts, and your words of encouragement about my darling’s birth. Yes, I fully expect a portrait of her—in oils!—one day … if you can make time among your other commissions.
    I will refrain from writing to inform Mr. Poole of your new suitor. The prospect of a duel between two gentlemen of such venerable years can cause nothing but revulsion to ladies so refined as ourselves!!!
    Love,
Cora
    [enclosure—clipping from propaganda pamphlet]
    “Don’t stop for a moment to think, John—
Your country calls, then go;
Don’t think of me or the children,
I’ll care for them, you know.”
    Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi
To
Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine
c/o Eliza Johnson, Elizabethton, Tennessee
T HURSDAY , J ULY 17, 1862
    [lost]
    Cora Poole, Deer Isle, Maine
To
Susanna Ashford, Vicksburg, Mississippi
c/o Mrs. Eliza Johnson, Elizabethton,
Tennessee
S ATURDAY , A UGUST 2, 1862
    My darling Susanna,
    A hundred times in the past three weeks I’ve thought
—Susie needs to know about this!
And by the time I finish cleaning the school-house, and step off the
Lady Anne
at Green’s Landing, and walk, through peaceful summer woods at twilight, the mile and a half to Elinor’s to get Mercy and then another mile and a half home, and feed Mercy, and help Mother with supper, and tell Papa about teaching (there are youngsters in my class under the impressionthat all United States Presidents are lineally descended from George Washington), and—and—and … it is ten o’clock, with dawn, breakfast, and the walk to Green’s Landing again all due at five.
    I must and will write, though once again it is nearly ten,