The Speculator

Marcy’s pulse quickened as she peered through the hotel lobby windows overlooking Market Street. Sidewalks were already teeming with tourists at nine-thirty in the morning. Pedestrian traffic was commonplace in this coastal town, but today’s blue sky and infectious sunshine swelled crowds. Marcy drummed her foot against the floor, eager to join in the excitement.

“Summer’s our busy season.” A gray-haired concierge relegated to a desk in the lobby’s corner had spoken to her. She stood in front of her station, a petite and smartly dressed woman whose face broadcast kindness. Had she not been wearing a blazer embossed with the hotel’s name, she could have been a misplaced grandmother. Her friendly service was lost on guests though, who casually streamed past her as if she were a long-forgotten statue in a park, a roost for pigeons.

“I’d say so!” Marcy, softened by a pang of compassion, responded. The woman’s face beamed like someone who’d just caught her first fish. She crossed the foyer to reel in her prey. Marcy smiled good-naturedly. Her reply had invited conversation, but, despite her impatience to leave the hotel, she wouldn’t be impolite. “I assume by following the masses, I’ll end up in Market Square,” she said, cocking her head toward the busy sidewalk outside.

“Absolutely. That’s the heart of this old town and a tourist hub. Can I direct you to something?” The woman raised her eyebrows, looking expectantly at Marcy.

“I have a meeting at the Portsmouth Athenaeum on the square. If I follow the crowd, I’m sure I can find it easily enough, but thank you.”

“Ah-h-h, the research library.” The concierge raised her chin and the cadence in her voice expressed familiarity with the location. Then she wagged her finger at Marcy. “Finding it can be tricky if you don’t know the area. The Athenaeum shares its public entrance with an Irish boutique and it’s not well marked.” She looked Marcy straight in the eye, then began coaching her.

“Go through the Celtic shop’s main entrance. Inside the vestibule, you’ll see the door to the boutique on your right. Ignore it; head straight up the stairs in front of you. The Athenaeum is on the third floor.”

Marcy’s eyes widened at the detailed directions.

“I stand corrected. Thank you.” The woman smiled contentedly, then folded her arms across her chest and blinked ever so slowly, while bowing her head. “Huh,” Marcy uttered under her breath, surprised how a simple conversation could elicit such satisfaction.

Outside the hotel, a cool breeze rushed through her as a reminder. She’d been told New Hampshire summer mornings and evenings often render an early spring chill. Marcy rubbed her palms against each other, then cupped them and blew into an opening between her thumbs. Grateful she’d worn a sweater with her yellow sundress, she slung a leather tote over her shoulder and focused on the activity in Portsmouth. She didn’t consider herself a typical sightseer since she had come here for business, but the lure to see this nearly four hundred-year- old town tugged at the history junkie inside her. After her meeting, she’d indulge her nerdy side by touring the town’s historical sites.

The much-traveled Market Street was a narrow road sandwiched between 19th century buildings lined with storefronts reminiscent of yesteryear. Mom-and-Pop shops sporting Victorian awnings and window boxes burdened with flowers welcomed visitors. Marcy looked ahead to Market Square where a tall white steeple drew her attention. From a promotional brochure she had leafed through earlier, she knew it must be North Church, a celebrated landmark in downtown Portsmouth, a vestige of its Puritan roots.

A throng of tourists milled about the old church and Marcy imagined this scene would have pleased John Winthrop, the alpha Puritan who led the Great Migration from England to North America four centuries ago. Surely he’d be proud his religion’s legacy, embedded in New England history, still held some intrigue. Across the Northeast, the iconic white church with its lofty spire still dominated townscapes.

On the other hand, she thought, Winthrop could spend eternity frustrated. The theocracy he’d dedicated his life promoting fizzled out shortly after his death. Puritan churches evolved to house other Protestant faiths. Marcy rubbed her chin while watching tourists exploring North Church, like ants crawling over an anthill. Winthrop might want to shun these sightseers, perturbed by their prying. Marcy shrugged her shoulders. As a history teacher, she knew better than to presume what historical figures would think, say or feel posthumously. Still, it was entertaining to consider.

As she scanned the square, an ocean breeze carrying the salty scent of the sea tingled in her nose, exhilarating her senses and expelling tension from her body. She felt lighter somehow, almost as if she were floating in the waves off the coast. The whiff of marine also told her how close she was to the ocean, distinguishing this as a port city famous for its fish markets and seafood trade. From the research she’d done on Portsmouth, she knew the town owed its founding to the fishing industry. The first European inhabitants used fish flakes, or drying racks, for the cod they harvested from the ocean. Once thoroughly dried, they'd export it to England for a profit. Portsmouth had been a fishing mecca since its inception.

A loud blare jarred Marcy from her thoughts. The eye-opening noise from tugboat air horns on the nearby Piscataqua River drowned out everything, from the mewing seagulls to the noises of the small city. She smiled broadly and hugged herself. Her brief acquaintance of Portsmouth with its sights, smells and sounds charmed her.

Across the square, she saw the Irish boutique the concierge had mentioned. Next door to it, an imposing Federal-style building caught her eye. Twin black doors figured prominently in the center, like sentinels standing shoulder to shoulder at their post. A Palladian window crowned the doors in royal grandeur. Could that be the Athenaeum, she wondered? Her stomach lurched as she crossed the street to her destination.

Inside the boutique threshold, she climbed the stairway to the research library. Upon opening its door, the familiar scent of old books escaped into the hallway and swaddled her in their earthy fragrance. The smell came from the decomposition of paper, but she didn’t care about its origin, only that the woody aroma cued a sense of peace within her. She was home. Grounded. Safe. Libraries always had that effect on her.

As a lonely child, the pull to books became her refuge. Marcy struggled with social anxiety, so making friends was difficult. Her older sister, endowed with charisma, had no trouble attracting them. Children clung to her like barnacles on the hull of a ship. Marcy yearned for such a magnetic personality. Her bashful manner distanced children, who mistook her as unfriendly, even snobbish. She blamed the children’s snub on her appearance, thinking her constellation of freckles, tangled nest of red hair and spindly shape estranged them. To console herself, she turned to novels and befriended their characters, living through their adventures, slipping back and forth between time and space.

Inside the Athenaeum, Marcy scanned one end of the research-room punctuated with an antique library table, a peninsula surrounded by rosewood bookshelves on three sides. The other half of the floor featured modern computers and five-foot tall metal bookshelves that seemed incongruous to the period furnishings. A mahogany card catalogue took center stage, marrying the two ends of the room together. Marcy looked for a librarian. She glanced between book stack corridors and came upon a sandy-haired young man plied at his desk in a study nook.

“Excuse me,” Marcy said, “Are you the keeper?” At her greeting, the man startled. Clearly, her question had derailed his concentration.

“No, I’m not the keeper, just a research librarian. Do you have an appointment?” He spoke to her while rising to his feet. His hands rushed to rub down the front of his shirt, vainly trying to smooth out creases a hot iron would struggle to erase.

“Yes, I’m scheduled to meet with S. E. Perkins at 10:00 this morning.” Marcy recalled the email sent to confirm her appointment. The initials in the signature concealed the keeper’s identity, and this mystery bothered her. She wanted to know more about the person she’d be meeting today. After all, this meeting could change the course of her life. It was part of a three- pronged approach to earn the keeper’s respect and, eventually, a recommendation on her application to Harvard University’s Fellowship Program. But who was the keeper? The Athenaeum’s website revealed no background or personal staff information. Perhaps the wrinkled librarian would divulge some details about the keeper. Even at this last minute, a few facts would be better than nothing. Marcy remained hopeful as he motioned for her to follow him.

He led her to a reading room where library tables with empty chairs sat waiting for patrons to fill them. Paintings of famous New Hampshire citizens adorned the walls, casting an air of importance and dignity to the setting. Busts of deceased philanthropists and former Athenaeum keepers perched on pedestals as cherished trophies, while other refined antiquities completed the décor. Marcy’s eyes scanned the scene and lighted on an antique figurehead taken from the front of an old brigantine ship. It featured a beautiful woman in period clothing. Marcy huffed in a breath of air. She couldn’t take her eyes off the masterpiece. The woman’s head tilted back, exposing her alabaster face to the sun and the ocean spray her ship would have encouraged, as it crushed through the rhythmic rise and fall of ocean waves. Her gaze suspended over the ocean, seeking some elusive shoreline. The expression carved on her face conveyed pride as her ship’s guardian angel of the sea, leading her passengers to safety.

“Hey, didn’t you want to meet the keeper?” The librarian’s voice riled Marcy from her trance. “You ok?” he asked, grinning sheepishly. “You looked like you were a hundred miles away.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Her cheeks flushed as she told him to continue. In the room’s corner, a staircase curving like the spine of a coiled snake, opened to the floor above them. The librarian walked over and stopped at the foot of the steps. He palmed the cap of the banister post, glanced up the staircase and looked back at Marcy.

“The reward for the climb is Susan’s office,” he said. “You should be fine from here. Good luck.”

Susan, Marcy thought, so the keeper was a woman. As she climbed the stairs, her heart pounded in nervous excitement. At the landing on the fourth floor, she saw a nameplate brandishing the office door, a mounted herald. She inhaled a deep breath and knocked.

“It’s open,” Susan said. Releasing lungs full of air, Marcy opened the door to destiny.

“Hello, I’m Marcy Thompson; here to talk about the first Puritan settlement in Portsmouth.”

“Sit down.” Marcy’s chest tightened at the brusque welcome. Susan glanced at Marcy, then returned her gaze to her computer screen. She was strictly business sitting behind a large mahogany desk, typing on her keyboard, absorbed in her work. A woman in her mid-fifties wearing a conservative tan suit jacket and white blouse, she was direct, not one to waste time exchanging pleasantries. “Let’s get to it,” she said. Black horn-rimmed glasses framed her eyes, which darted from Marcy to a wall clock in her office. She’d have to impress this woman quickly.

Susan’s office phone rang, cutting through the marbled silence. She directed Marcy to prepare her research while she took the call. Like a soldier following orders, Marcy pulled out her files, carefully laying them on the desk like pieces of priceless crystal. Suddenly, Susan screamed into the phone and began crying. The stern professional was gone, replaced by a hysterical substitute. As she put the phone down, she was frantic and sobbing.

“I-I have to go. That was the hospital. There’s been an accident. My husband...”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry. We can...” Before she could finish her sentence, Susan was out the door. Marcy was alone and numb, with three years of her life splayed on Susan’s bureau. She slumped forward in the chair, cradling her head in her hands. The meeting was over before it began. She had been so close to presenting her work on the Puritan diaspora in New England. Naturally, she empathized with Susan, but the pain of disappointment left her empty.

Leaving the Athenaeum, Marcy determined to salvage some part of this trip to Portsmouth, so she decided to visit Strawbery Banke, the city’s birthplace, and now an outdoor history museum. She purchased a ticket to stroll through the 10-acre site, complete with period gardens, authentically restored houses, and even costumed characters acting as living history interpreters. She ventured out on the ground’s loosely graveled path, hoping this trip back in time would rouse her spirits. Marcy skimmed through a complimentary pamphlet she’d received at admission. It chronicled the history of the settlement, much of which she already knew from her own detective work, but the last line of the summary sent her spiraling into the abyss exacted by the morning’s failed meeting. She reread the words in the brochure: “The original homes that once dotted Strawbery Banke’s coastline are lost to history.”

“Ugh! Why weren’t they protected?” she grumbled while kicking at the loose pea gravel. Colonial houses from the mid-seventeenth century were an endangered species in America.There were only a few remaining. She’d visited two on the East Coast last summer and recorded their features. If the original Strawbery Banke dwellings had survived, they would have contributed valuable data. She collapsed on a nearby bench, her chin almost rested on her breastbone.

Marcy scanned the handout to see what else this destination offered. Her eyes zeroed in on a photo of an old gable-roofed saltbox. The caption touted that the Sherburne House, a 1695 construction, enjoyed the distinction of being the oldest standing structure in this neighborhood. Its construction didn’t align with the timing of the Puritans’ Great Migration, but it was still within the 17th century. Her mood marginally improved.

She approached the gray-weathered clapboard, testifying to generations of Mother Nature’s wrath. Upon entering, a musty-scent of dormancy assaulted her. The dank, barren interior, illuminated by natural light, gave the place a rather mysterious aura. The absence of walls reminded her of the Boston Aquarium’s exhibit of a whale skeleton. Its bony framework was evidence of a once magnanimous animal. Likewise, this manor had been reduced to a shell of its former self, nothing but hand-hewn beams and studs. The antiquity of the old house captivated Marcy, but something seemed odd. There wasn’t a museum employee in the home. Usually, someone would be stationed in the entry to welcome visitors and explain the house’s history. She shrugged it off and proceeded, assuming this must be a self-guided tour where guests wandered through at their chosen pace or interest.

Inside the foyer, a steep narrow stairway beckoned her to investigate upstairs, and Marcy accepted the unspoken invitation. Light streaking through broken shingles illuminated her climb, while highlighting floating dust particles and cobwebs. As she rambled through the second level, floorboards protested the weight of her steps, releasing an ominous creak with each footfall. The timeworn surroundings that initially intrigued her now triggered an uncanny feeling she knew this house, but how? She’d never been here. Still, she couldn’t quell the sensation she’d once walked these floors and even communed with the home’s original residents. Marcy’s body stiffened. When goose bumps electrified the hair on her arms, Marcy buttoned her sweater to disarm the chill. Every instinct warned her to leave.

“Get a grip”, she mumbled to herself, attempting a tone of bravado while retreating outdoors. Outside on Puddle Lane, she exhaled relief and wondered what had happened in there. The experienced annoyed her. She resolved to go back into the Sherburne House. And she would, she told herself, but not until she’d explored the rest of this fossilized neighborhood.

Marcy wandered the streets of Strawbery Banke, passing homes dating from the 1800s. Unwittingly, she had strayed back to the visitor’s center and gift shop. There was nothing like a little shopping to clear her head, she justified. The boutique featured tee shirts, pins, books, and miscellaneous novelties promoting the historical settlement. While culling through their merchandise, Marcy discovered a locket, a misfit in the display. The oval-shaped locket may once have flaunted a shiny gold exterior, but time and neglect had sullied its luster, giving it a shabby tarnished appearance. Marcy squinted, trying to discern some kind of floral motif on an edge of the cover. A few indistinguishable letters graced the center. With minimal effort, someone could restore this blackened pendant to its original beauty. Marcy opened it. Inside, the locket revealed a portrait of a young provincial woman. Marcy’s hand flew to clasp her mouth, slapping her jaw.