That afternoon she took the mending outside to work in the fresh air. She found a spot in the sun on the side of the springhouse that faced the kitchen. Nearby Anje was tending the week’s washing, a task that required all her attention and thus spared Martha a conversation that would be awkward at best. Anje was the best of the LeBlanc sisters, but even she was given to asking questions that Martha had no intention of answering.
She slipped the darning egg into a sock and chose a bolt of thread from the workbasket. As she threaded the needle she wondered who would come by to talk to her today. The children would find her eventually, but Martha hoped that Curiosity would come too, and spend a few minutes. She liked talking to Curiosity, who seemed to see things nobody else saw, or at least to credit the things nobody else considered important.
The wind came up from the village and with it the sound of hammering and sawing, faint but persistent. Every man who could be spared had been put to work, and as a result most of the families who had lost their homes in the flood would have roofs over their heads within another week. Sooner, if it weren’t for the spring mud.
Sometimes Ethan came by and gave her news from the village or read the newspaper to her while she mended or sewed. From him she learned which houses needed roofs and which families were in most need of food or an encouraging word. Not that she provided these things; she stayed on the hill and did what she could to help the Bonners. But Ethan clearly needed to talk of these things, and it was an old habit between them, something left over from Manhattan when he had been her tutor.
The Spencers had first enrolled Martha at Miss Martin’s School for Young Ladies, but she had felt out of place there and terribly unhappy. Letters went back and forth between Manhattan and Paradise, and one day Amanda presented a proposition. The Bonners believed Martha was too intelligent to be satisfied with a curriculum that went no further than needlework, deportment, and rudimentary French. She should learn Latin and the classics, algebra and philosophy, and anything else that interested her. Italian? History? Tutors could be had for any subject, really, and in the comfort of the Spencer’s house.
In the end Ethan had taken most of the responsibility for her schooling. Miss Anne Schubert was hired as a singing tutor—Martha had no interest in pianoforte, but she did have a clear and very sweet alto voice worthy of training, or at least the adults claimed that to be the case. There was a drawing teacher as well, and from Amanda she learned the fine points of crewelwork embroidery.
The only problem, as Martha saw it, was that Ethan’s concern for her education was something he took far more seriously than she did herself, at least at first.
He gave her books to read and long lists of verbs to conjugate and memorize. At a weekly supper he would draw her into conversation about her studies. This was not so terrible, because Will and Amanda were always there and the discussions were often too interesting to be thought of as examinations.
Then Ethan had moved back to Paradise, leaving her with the injunction to keep working on the list of books he had left behind.
It had been a relief at the time, not to have to bother with conversations about taxes and trade, Cromwell and Richard III. No more French subjunctive clauses, or dusty old Latin historians. When Ethan left Manhattan Teddy had just begun to court her, and with Teddy on her mind there was no room for anything else. Martha rarely thought of Ethan at all—she was embarrassed to admit this to herself, but it was true—until the day Teddy broke off the engagement. The Spencers did their best for her, but she would have liked to have Ethan nearby as well.
She was not the only one who felt his absence. Ethan Middleton was one of the most eligible young men in Manhattan. He had a great deal of money and property both; the men all thought well of his skills in business and his financial dealings; he was personable and good-looking and he could dance so well that when he did make an appearance at a ball, many heads turned eagerly in his direction.
In New-York he had presence and a sterling reputation, but here in Paradise they saw him differently. It most likely had to do with his Bonner cousins. In a crowd of Bonners, Ethan seemed to fade away. Martha had talked to Amanda Spencer about this more than once, because it struck her as unfair.
“His whole posture changes,” Martha had said. “As if he doesn’t want to be seen.”
Amanda couldn’t disagree with Martha’s observations, but she knew more of Ethan’s history and saw the matter differently.
“He is very much like his father,” she said. “But only in his appearance. The high brow, the shape of his head and hands and fingers, all except his coloring—he is the image of Julian. But in all other ways he is nothing like Julian at all. Not in temperament nor in spirit. Julian had no ambitions at all, and Ethan—why, you see for yourself. There’s hardly a charitable cause that he doesn’t support. He is always hard at work on one project or another.” She drew in a short breath and held it for a heartbeat. “Cousin Julian was a difficult and unhappy young man.”
Which was all Amanda could be coaxed to say about Julian Middleton, who had died of burns from a fire he had set himself, only a few hours before Ethan was born. There was a great deal more to the story, but those details had proved impossible to extract. Plenty of people knew about Ethan, but nobody was talking.
With that thought a possible explanation came to mind and so she asked Amanda directly. “Can you tell me just one thing? Does Ethan know the things you won’t talk about?”
Amanda nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “There were people in Paradise who made sure of that.”
Which meant, Martha understood, that it was her own mother who had had some part in telling Ethan things that would hurt him most. His mother had been vain and silly and died too young, and his stepfather had little use for him until he was old enough to take over the more unpleasant tasks that came a doctor’s way.
To Martha’s eye, at least, Ethan seemed to have survived all that and prospered. He had inherited almost seventy percent of the land in and around Paradise, not to mention properties from Johnstown to Albany and beyond; he need never raise a finger if he didn’t care to. But he worked without pause, as if the village’s welfare rested entirely with him. He was never so talkative as he was when the subject was Paradise and improvements that might be made.
Now he was talking about the flood damage, which houses had roofs and which needed shutters, how difficult it was to get hinges and every other kind of hardware that was needed. Joshua Hench was an outstanding blacksmith and he was more than hardworking; since the flood it seemed that the sound of hammering came from the smithy twenty hours a day. But even Curiosity’s son-in-law could not conjure raw material out of thin air.
Martha liked it when Ethan talked to her like this, as a woman grown, someone capable of discussing the situation and contributing her thoughts. It was very different from the hours she had spent going over the readings he had assigned her in philosophy and current events.
She looked up from her mending and saw that Curiosity was walking toward her, moving more quickly than a woman her age could or should. Her cane kicked up sharp-edged divots of earth.
“Came by to see Elizabeth,” she announced. “Asked about you and now here you are, working.”
“It’s not very much,” Martha said. “Just a little darning. Jennet’s boys are hard on their socks, and I might as well make myself useful.”
Curiosity called over to Anje. “Been at it since sunup, have you?”
Anje nodded and wiped a strand of hair from her face with the back of one wrist. “Joan should be coming to take over any minute now,” she called back.
Curiosity lowered herself onto the second stool and pushed out a deep breath. She said, “Don’t you have a nice hand with a needle. But then I always did like darning; it put me in a peaceful state of mind. Some women darn too heavy, but see there, you got a smooth edge all around.”
Martha made a humming sound and bent down to the thread basket, taking her time to find what
she needed.
“You modest as you ever was as a girl and just as hard a worker,” Curiosity said. “Why do you blush and look away when you hear the truth spoke plain?”
“You give me too much credit,” Martha said. “I’ll take on any work that gives me an excuse to stay out of the village another day.”
A smile flickered across Curiosity’s face. “You planning on staying up here on the hill for good?”
“It’s a tempting idea,” Martha said. “I certainly wouldn’t ever be bored as long as the Bonner grandchildren are nearby. They want to go down to the village as much as I want to stay here, and somehow I’ve become the person they bring all their arguments to. I don’t make those decisions, but they seem to like to practice on me.”
Curiosity crossed her arms over her middle and rocked back and forth, laughing softly. “They are a rascally bunch. I can tell you, all this pestering about going down to the village will stop just as soon as Daniel opens the school back up. Then you’ll see how much work they got to do right here. Now you, you’ll go down when you ready. I expect you’ll want to see Callie sooner rather than later.”
“I think about her every day,” Martha said. “But then I always find a reason not to go.”
Curiosity thought about that for a while. “Ain’t much of a welcome home you had, but I don’t expect you wanted one.”
“No,” Martha said. “Not especially.”
“I had my doubts when they took you away to Manhattan,” Curiosity said. “But you turned out a fine young woman, and I’m glad to see you back here again.”
Tears filled Martha’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Now I’ma say something to you, and I want you to listen close. That young man—what was his name?”
“Edward Peyton,” Martha said. How strange it sounded, spoken out loud. “Teddy.”
“You can count yourself lucky to be shut of such a weak-willed boy. Maybe you don’t see it yet, but so it is.”
“Oh, I see it,” Martha said. “I had a letter from him yesterday that made everything clear to me. Do you want to hear it?”
“If you want to read it to me, I’ll listen.”
“I put it in the fire, but I can recite it word for word. It went like this: ‘My dear Miss Kirby, I should like to have the ring I gave you returned to me at your earliest convenience, as it was my grandmother’s and is meant to stay in the family. Sincerely, Edward Peyton the Third.’”
In the small silence that followed, Martha gathered her thoughts. “I did try to give it back to him on the day he broke the engagement off, but he could not get out of the house quickly enough.” The rest of what she was thinking came out almost against her will. “No doubt he is about to enter into another engagement. I’m sure I’ll hear about it soon, in next week’s post or the one after that.”
She wondered at herself that she could be so calm as she told these things, but it all seemed so small and far away. The very idea of Teddy left her hollow, nothing of anger or resentment. A kind of echo, and no more. Now there was a lightness, a feeling of having taken the right path, though it had not been her choice at the time.
“Not the right young man for you, no indeed,” Curiosity said. “You need somebody you can count on when things get rough. Because they going to get rough this summer, and I know you feel it coming.”
Martha came up out of her thoughts at this change of tone.
“You mean Jemima.”
“I do. That exactly who I mean. The only good thing that woman ever done was to bring you into the world and then leave you with us when she run off. But she back now, and the only reason for her to come looking for you is, she want something. She won’t stop coming at you until she got it.”
“What?” Martha said. “What could she want from me? Money? I’d give her everything if it meant being shut of her.”
“Don’t matter,” Curiosity said. “’Cause even if you give her every penny, she ain’t gonna be satisfied. It ain’t in her nature. So now, we know something’s coming, but there’s nothing to be gained by sitting around and worrying about it. I want you to go on about your life and settle down here in Paradise. Try to put Jemima out of your head and remember, we look after our own.”
Just as Curiosity got to her feet with the intention of going on to talk to Elizabeth, Anje called over. Could Martha watch the fire while Anje went to see what was keeping her sister? She still hadn’t had her midday meal and there was the matter of the Necessary.
Martha had not tended to such chores for many years, but she could not turn down such a reasonable and polite request for help. She tucked away her mending and took Anje’s place, waving to Curiosity as she set off for the house.
It was immediately familiar, the heat and steam and the many strong smells.
“Just keep stirring,” Anje said. “One of us will be back before the fire needs tending.”
Within a few minutes Martha’s clothes were soaked with steam and sweat, and the stirring stick felt as heavy as a tree. She was concentrating so hard that she didn’t notice Birdie until she had walked right up to stand on the far side of the fire pit.
“You need to tie your skirts up higher and tighter. You could catch fire. That’s how Anna from the trading post died; she didn’t pay attention and her skirts caught and—she died.”
Without comment or argument Martha stepped back from the pot and pulled a handful of her skirt up through her belt. Anybody who came by would have a clear view of her stockinged legs from knee to shoe, but she never saw anyone here but the Bonner grandchildren and Curiosity or Hannah.
“That’s better,” Birdie said, still indignant. And: “Did you know that a person can die from a broken arm, even when it’s been set?”
Martha took her time answering. “I think I had heard that. Sometimes the marrow gets infected, or the blood.”
“I helped my sister set Friend Maria’s arm,” Birdie said. “My brother Daniel brought her to us, and Hannah told me how to help, and we set her arm. And I told her children that she would be well again soon.”
Martha had no idea what Birdie needed to hear, so she asked an obvious question.
“I’ve never seen it done. How do you set a broken bone?”
Birdie told her. It was a long and involved story because she stopped constantly to tell Martha where she had learned one fact or another and who had taught her. She had an astonishing memory for details, but Martha kept this observation to herself and said very little, unless it was to ask a question that would send Birdie off again.
“Friend Maria wasn’t even thirty years old,” Birdie said. “And her youngest just a year. What will they do?”
Now Martha understood why Birdie had come to her rather than her mother or one of her sisters, or even Curiosity.
Birdie was saying, “Missy O’Brien says they’ll have to go to an orphanage in Johnstown because a man can’t take care of so many little children unless he remarries right quick. And she said that she had faith that God would look after them. He never gives us more to bear than we can carry, that’s what she said.”
Her color was rising. “Do you believe that?”
“No,” Martha said. “It would be a happier world, if it were true. But people buckle and break every day under the weight they carry.” She thought of Callie’s father, who had simply walked away from home after Jemima cheated him out of everything he held dear.
Birdie turned suddenly, as if something had tapped her on the shoulder.
“I’m going to write an essay,” she said. “About burdens and happiness. Ma will help me, and Da and Lily and Hannah and—will you?”
“Of course,” Martha said, though she was not quite sure what she was agreeing to.
Birdie’s narrow back straightened as she walked toward the kitchen door. Which stood propped open, because Daniel Bonner was leaning against it, watching them. He caught Martha’s gaze and then he smiled, which was ever so rude. The polite thing to do woul
d be to turn away and pretend he hadn’t seen her with her skirts hiked up and her legs visible. But he stood there still, grinning at her. Curiosity’s voice came from the kitchen, asking if he intended on holding the house up like that forever, and if not, he had best make a decision about in or out, and right now.
Martha closed her eyes and counted to ten, and then the smell of burning roused her. The fire.
She grabbed for the stirring stick but Daniel was there to take it out of her hand. She should object, but she was too flustered and in spite of Anje’s reassurances, the fire did need feeding. She ignored Daniel while she got an armful of wood from the stack up against the springhouse door. When she allowed herself to look again, he was stirring. His one arm moved the paddle effortlessly, where Martha had struggled with both.
Daniel said, “You’ve burned yourself.”
Martha didn’t know what he was talking about. She looked down and saw that there was a blister rising on her hand.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “But thank you for your concern. I can take over the stirring again.”
“I’m sure you could,” Daniel said. “But I’m not ready to stop.”
She held her breath for two beats, and then said, “You have better things to do; you must.”
He looked toward the house. “I’m supposed to meet Ben, but he’s late. So no, at this moment I have nothing better to do. It’s not too often I lend a hand at this kind of thing, you know. Be a shame to waste the opportunity.”
He stirred for a full moment while Martha tried to find something to say, but then he had had enough of waiting.
“You mad about something?”
“Not in the least.”
“Now see, I would say you’re plenty mad by the look on your face.”