“All right, then,” he said, and sat down on the porch to tell the tale.
Johnny promptly climbed into his lap. He was a sturdy boy of four, no longer Hannah’s youngest but still in need of noodling now and then.
“The porcupine that killed a bear, you want to hear that one again?”
They did indeed.
“From the beginning,” Johnny said, “and this time don’t leave anything out.”
Martha found that she was delighted with the little house, and contrary to those worries she had kept to herself, she wasn’t in the least bit lonely. Being back in the village meant that people came by to visit, which kept her busy answering questions and passing teacups.
The one subject nobody dared to raise was Jemima. She was thankful for that, and for the many kindnesses people showed her. Most folks brought little gifts to welcome her. A few eggs, a cutting from a favorite geranium, a small basket woven from reeds; Becca came with a quart of her best gooseberry preserves.
“A peace offering,” Becca said.
“But why a peace offering? You have been the soul of generosity.”
Becca grunted. “I’m right put out with my girls. Alice most especially. She had no call to talk to you the way she did, and if I know her she ain’t finished yet.”
“No one has done me any harm,” Martha said. “Alice will come around eventually, and if she doesn’t we will keep out of each other’s way.”
Becca seemed to relax. She drank a cup of tea, provided what news there was from the rest of the village, and finally went back to the Red Dog looking determined.
All in all, the move had been a good idea, though Elizabeth seemed to be ill at ease about it. She had come to say good night to Martha the night before the move and apologized for what she called her rude behavior. She wanted to keep Martha at Uphill House, and she needed to have Lily at home, and she could not at first think of a way those two things could exist side by side.
“But it occurs to me,” she said. “That it would take less than a week to add on a room. Nathaniel and Simon believe it can be done, and then you can come back and stay with us as long as you like.”
Martha tried to say something, but Elizabeth held up a hand to ask for another moment.
“I am making a muddle of this, but really what I want to say is that we would like to keep you here with us, despite all the talk about getting Lily home. We’d like to have you here, and we will do whatever is required.”
“Lily is your daughter,” Martha told her. “There’s no need to apologize. Of course you need and want to have her here, and really, with all the building that needs to be done in the village, it would be very selfish of me to let Nathaniel and the others drop everything to see to building me a chamber. Ethan’s little house will suit me very well.”
“I still am very unhappy about the idea of you on your own,” Elizabeth said.
“There’s Mrs. Thicke,” Martha reminded her, but it didn’t seem to help. The crux of the problem was that she had no people of her own. No matter how loved and cared for she had been in the Spencer household, in the end she was not related to any of them by blood, but only goodwill. And now even that was at an end; she was able to see to her own affairs; she was an adult, and responsible for her own welfare.
Here she was, situated in a small, very pleasing little house with no one to call master. The idea was shocking. Revolutionary. Exciting. She could spend her days as she wished, sleep late mornings or walk around from room to room in her chemise.
Where that odd thought came from she wasn’t sure. Martha turned her attention to her trunks. Clothes and shoes and hats, boots and shawls and cloaks. She put her brushes and combs out on the dresser and then spent some time considering where she wanted her books.
It was true that she had a great many books, including a collection of novels that she often reread. It was a bit scandalous of her—she had never got up the courage to tell Teddy or his mother that she read such things—but now there was no need to hide her preference. In Paradise no one looked down on novels; at least, no one who had ever had Elizabeth Bonner for a teacher. When the class had been particularly productive or well behaved, Miss Elizabeth had rewarded them with a half hour or even an hour of reading aloud.
Martha put her books on the mantelpiece in the parlor and was pleased by the way the light picked up the gilded letters on the spines.
All through the day visitors dropped by, mostly out of curiosity. The women old enough to be her mother did not hesitate to ask her pointed questions. Who was to do her washing, then, and had she brought plates and bowls and such all the way from New-York City? Surely she must have had such things, if she was about to get married.
A significant pause always followed this observation. It was Martha’s habit to ignore such comments and questions, and in the end most people gave up and went back to household matters. They wanted to know about her pewter and where she would get her firewood, if she would buy soap and candles from the trading post or send to Albany or Johnstown for such things. If she was afraid, a single young woman alone with only Mrs. Thicke nearby. If she feared for her good name or her virtue. That last from Missy O’Brien, whose red, wet nose twitched as she went from room to room, determined to sniff out whatever secrets hid behind doors and in cupboards.
After a simple dinner Martha took the crumbs from the table outside for the birds and stayed a minute to feel the sun on her face. She thought of sitting here with a book, but then she was an object of enough gossip, and there would be more talk if she was seen reading in the full light of day. As if there were no work in the world worth putting her hand to, when in fact she had stockings to mend, and shoes to polish, and letters to write. She turned to go back in and saw Callie coming up the lane.
She wore an old gown, singed at the hem and much mended. On her head was a straw hat with a hole in the brim.
Somehow Callie had learned a trick that Martha knew she could not master. Callie followed her heart and her conscience and her good sense, and damn what the neighbors thought. She didn’t care for fancy clothes and didn’t seem to mind the loss of all her things in the flood; she wore what people loaned her without complaint. It was an admirable thing, but an odd one.
If Martha were to say as much to her, Callie would just laugh and agree that she surely was odd, and hadn’t Martha known that all along? She was the daughter of a woman who wandered through the village at night, ate dirt, forgot her own name. And no one had ever let her forget it.
To Martha’s way of looking at things, Callie had done more than well for herself. She had—or had had, before the flood—a well-run farm and orchard, and the respect of her neighbors, and the satisfaction she got from every day’s hard work. Martha had been spoiled by opportunity and money, and she knew it.
“Hello,” Martha called to her. “Will you come in and have some dinner?”
Callie squinted up at Martha, her expression close and guarded. She was angry about something. Whatever it was, Martha would hear about it before she left again. Callie couldn’t keep such things to herself. She was quick to take offense but she didn’t hold a grudge, at least not in Martha’s experience of her.
Mrs. Thicke had gone off to see her sister, and so Martha fixed Callie a plate and sat down with her.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not my cooking.”
“I don’t remember you having any trouble in the kitchen.”
Martha drew in a long breath. “You’re right. I don’t even know why I said that.”
What she really didn’t know was, why she was so nervous around Callie. Why she should feel uncertain and anxious. Maybe it wasn’t obvious to Callie, because she applied herself to the roast pork and put-up butter beans, pausing every once in a while to look around herself.
“Like a doll’s house,” she said. “I don’t know why it should seem so small. It’s twice the size of the cabin I grew up in.”
A little warmth had crept into her tone, and
her color was coming up.
“When’s the last time you sat down to eat a proper meal?” Martha asked.
Callie glanced up sharply. “Do I look to you like I need mothering?”
Martha jerked. “Are you sitting on a tack? Because otherwise I’m at a loss to explain your tone.”
“Hmmmpf.” Callie stabbed the last piece of meat on the plate and took her time chewing it.
Finally she said, “I should have known you wasn’t serious when we talked about building a house on my land. But you could have told me so yourself instead of me finding out from Alice LeBlanc, with a smirk on her face too.”
Martha said, “Why would you credit anything Alice has to say?”
“I see what I see,” Callie said.
Martha let out a bark of a laugh. “You are jumping to conclusions. What makes you think I’m settling in here for good?”
Callie shrugged. “Never said that.”
“If you haven’t guessed already,” Martha said, “I’m here because Lily needed the room at Uphill House and this was the only logical place for me to go.”
“There’s the Red Dog.” Callie chased a bean around her plate as if it were a matter of life and death.
“You aren’t thinking this through,” Martha said. “If I turned down the house offered me for a room in the Red Dog, how churlish and small-minded would that make me look? Elizabeth was falling all over herself as it was, trying to think of a way not to send me off. I think if I had said I was going to the Red Dog, she would have slept in the hay barn and insisted I take her bed.”
Callie grumbled into her cup.
“What was that?”
“I said, the Red Dog is good enough for me.”
“Lord give me strength. Did you come by here set on an argument? You remember that mule of Mr. Glove’s, the one so stubborn and ill-tempered that he just up and shot it between the eyes?”
The corner of Callie’s mouth jerked.
Martha said, “If you had given me the chance, I was going to ask you if you had any interest in this place. There’s another chamber with a good bed in it, and Mrs. Thicke doesn’t much like cooking for just me. Now you can talk, if you’ve got something to say. You might want to start by excusing yourself.”
Callie cleared her throat. “Is it true you’re going to take over the second classroom at the schoolhouse?”
In her surprise Martha stammered. “It’s not true. Or at least, the subject was raised and it hasn’t been settled yet.”
Callie looked at her coolly. “But if he asked, you’d do it.”
“He did ask me,” Martha said. “But the conversation never took an end. I haven’t seen Daniel in—two days, at least. What is that look, Callie? Are you accusing me of lying?”
“Oh, I think you may be lying,” Callie said, more easily. “But mostly to yourself.”
She pushed her plate away and stood. “Thank you kindly for the meal, it was good. And I’m sorry for being so sharp, but it was a disappointment to hear about the change in plans.”
“What change in plans?” Martha said, looking up at her. “I don’t see why we have to put aside the plan to build that house.”
“You don’t?” Callie shook her head. “Well, I do. And his name is Daniel Bonner. I expect you’ll marry him before the summer’s out.”
And finally, there it was, in the open. That moment in the sunlit schoolhouse with Daniel Bonner, when Callie had walked in and startled them.
She could make excuses, but Callie would see through them and would like her even less for it. The truth was very plain and undeniable: There was something happening between her and Daniel. When she remembered that moment in the schoolhouse before Callie came in—as she did, quite often—Martha felt the same pressure and tingling just under the heart, that fear and joy and anticipation all wound together. Once she had had that feeling when she was with Teddy, and here it was again, unexpectedly. Even against her will. What it meant, where it was likely to go, she had no idea. At this moment she wasn’t sure what she wanted herself, though Callie seemed to know exactly.
Martha folded her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Where do you get such an idea?”
“I’ve got eyes in my head.”
“But there was nothing to see,” Martha said. “He never touched me—like that.”
Callie turned her face away. “Seems to me that a girl would take some care, so soon after she got her heart broke. Or maybe you’re tougher than I thought. You got over Teddy quick enough.”
Martha froze, unsure of what she had heard until she saw the challenge in Callie’s face. A flicker of embarrassment and then another, sharper, of anger.
“That was both unfair and unkind,” Martha said. She said this very quietly, very evenly, but Callie held up her head and set her jaw.
“Thank you again for my dinner,” she said. Nothing remarkable in her voice, as if they were hardly acquainted. Martha followed her to the door, trying to gather her thoughts together and find something to say.
“By the way,” Callie said, pausing in the open door. “The ice-out party is tonight at Lake in the Clouds.”
Martha found it difficult to take this information in. “A party at Lake in the Clouds? Tonight?”
“Short notice, but you don’t have to get dressed up fine. You’d only ruin a good gown. There’s a big fire and dancing and food.”
“Who will be there?” Martha asked. Her voice came a little hoarse.
“The Hidden Wolf folks, and most all the younger Bonners from Luke down to Gabriel. The children they leave at home with the grandparents. A few friends and cousins from Good Pasture.”
“Oh,” Martha said. The question that came to mind was not one she wanted to ask Callie, but she didn’t need to put it into words anyway.
“I expect he’ll be by this afternoon to invite you,” Callie said.
“What I was wondering,” Martha said, “is if you’ll be there.”
Callie met her eye. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I will.”
Lily woke to find Daniel sitting beside her.
“There you are,” he said. “Ma said she’d have my liver if I woke you. Did you know you snore, little sister?”
Lily tried not to smile and found that a very difficult trick. She said, “I’m still older than you and always will be. And you’d snore too, if you were tied down day and night.”
“Maybe so.” And then: “Ice-out tonight, did you hear?”
“It would be hard to miss. The whole house is in an uproar.”
He met her gaze. “I was wondering if maybe we should have ice-out down here this year.”
“That’s kind of you, but it wouldn’t feel right to ask for everybody to change their plans. And if you did all come down here, what would I do? Watch you from the window?” She shook her head. “Ice-out belongs to Lake in the Clouds. You go, and don’t worry about me. Ma has got something planned, her and Curiosity and Birdie.”
There was a small silence.
She said, “Would you stop rumpling your face like that? I don’t mind staying behind, I really don’t. There’s a reward coming down the line for all this good behavior.”
His gaze wandered to her middle and something moved across his face. Worry? Discomfort?
Finally he said, “That makes sense. But once you’ve got that baby safe on the outside of you, we’ll have a party. You still like a party don’t you? I can’t imagine Italy would have changed you that much.”
“Oh, I like a party,” she said. “So you came by here to try to cheer me up?”
“I suppose.”
“Ah,” she said. “There’s something else, I can see it on your face.”
Daniel was pleased to be able to nudge his twin toward a better mood, and for a moment he thought they might have a whole conversation without an argument. But he wasn’t a coward, and so he said it.
“I’m going to invite Martha to the ice-out.”
Her expression shifted, so sub
tly that a stranger wouldn’t think much of it.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“I do,” he said evenly. He held her gaze.
When they were young Lily could scold her brother and cousins into a corner and keep them there until there was no choice but to concede the folly and repent whatever scheme they had in mind. Daniel had the distinct feeling that such a scolding was coming his way, and he didn’t like the idea.
He said, “You can’t talk me out of it, Lily. We’re not ten years old anymore.”
She said nothing for a long time, putting together her argument. Daniel waited patiently because there was nothing else to do. They would have this conversation sooner or later, and it might as well be now.
She was saying, “You have waited so long, Daniel. Why must you settle all at once on Martha Kirby?”
Daniel made her wait, as he had waited. “Why do you dislike her so much?”
“Oh, Daniel.” Lily sighed. “I don’t. I don’t dislike her.”
“So it’s about Jemima. You can’t see the difference between Martha and her mother.”
A muscle in Lily’s jaw fluttered. “Of course I can see the difference. If Jemima was gone for good—” She paused as if thinking through what she was about to say, and he interrupted her.
“If we got word tomorrow that Jemima was dead, you’d welcome Martha into the family with open arms. Is that what you’re saying?”
She shook her head. “I’m not thinking that far ahead, and I hope you aren’t either. What I do know is that Jemima could show up here any time and if she does—when she does—she will look for any opportunity to cause us harm.”
Daniel found it hard to imagine what kind of harm Jemima might cause the Bonners, but he could see how much Lily believed what she was saying, and how distressed she was.
“The only person who really has cause to be afraid is Martha herself,” he said. “And Jemima’s already stripped her of the life she had in Manhattan.”
Lily put her hands flat on the coverlet and smoothed it. “We were there, Daniel. We were there on the day Martha was conceived at Eagle Rock. I know you reckoned it out for yourself. You can’t deny it. You saw Jemima, what was in her face when she caught sight of us. I doubt many people have ever seen her true nature as we did that day. Do you think that’s gone away? Do you think she’s sitting in Manhattan or Boston or Albany wondering how to put things right? The simple fact of the trouble she set out to ruin Martha’s engagement makes it clear that she’s as bad as she ever was. Can you disagree with that?”