Into the Wilderness

by Sara Donati

  “I will pack my bags this very day and set out for England, if you do not reconsider that position,” she said in a voice so deadly calm that the judge swayed as if he had received a physical blow.

  Elizabeth swept past him and shut the door quietly behind her.

  In a blind rush, she began to pile her things together on her bed, pulling clothing out of the drawers, folding her dresses haphazardly, her hands shaking so that small objects fell to the floor and would not be picked up.

  Curiosity appeared in short order, her smooth brown face creased with surprise and considerable irritation.

  “Now what trouble have you got yourself in?” she asked with one brow raised, but in a kindly tone.

  “As if the whole household didn’t hear,” Elizabeth responded, picking with great irritation at the hairpins which had scattered themselves over the comforter.

  Curiosity shook her head. “I thought you had better hold of your temper than the judge.”

  “Ah, well.” Elizabeth strode to her desk and began to pile books together. “There’s only so much a person can bear.”

  “You want to go back to England?”

  “No!” Elizabeth half turned. Her copy of Inferno slipped from the pile and suddenly the entire stack of books was sliding to the floor. She collapsed in a billow of skirts and began pulling them onto her lap. “I don’t want to go. But what choice do I have?”

  Curiosity was standing with her bony arms crossed, one toe tapping at the floorboards.

  “Now who is this talking? Sound to me like some little girl don’t know her own mind. Somebody who don’t care about teaching school.” Suddenly she leaned over and snapped up a book, held it out to Elizabeth.

  “Of course I care,” Elizabeth cried, taking the book from Curiosity. “But my father will stand in my way at every turn.”

  A smile from Curiosity was a rare thing, but she produced a grin.

  “You listen here, Elizabeth,” she said. “I been keeping house for your father for longer than you been pulling air, and my menfolk have run his farm for him just as long. We know him better than you do. Let me tell you—this ain’t the worst idea ever come to you. Put a fright into him, see what good it bring. I’ll have Galileo and Manny tote your trunks up here, and the judge’ll be sweatin’ so as he’ll need to take off his hat or die of the heat.”

  Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself, a little bark of amusement.

  Curiosity’s eyes were narrowed, and she pursed her lips. “You go on an’ laugh. But you listen, too. Sit up here on them trunks and listen to your daddy pacin’ up and down the house wondering what stars he could pull out of the heavens to keep you here. Wondering if there’s a ladder long enough. Thinking about it hard.”

  “My father,” said Elizabeth, “is made of the same fabric as my uncle Merriweather and every other Englishman I’ve ever come across. He cannot see my point, because he cannot see me. Do you realize that, Curiosity? He sees me as a—commodity. The person I am, that person is invisible to him.”

  “Lord, yes,” Curiosity said. “But you come a long way, child. Don’t stop now when the blind man just about ready to have his eyes opened for him.”

  “What is the use?” Elizabeth muttered. “He will never apologize.”

  Curiosity flapped her apron impatiently. “Is that what you want most in this world? Lord above. Tell me, are those few words more important to you than your schoolhouse, or your get-up-and-go, or the lock he threatenin’ you with? Wake up, child. The man is at your mercy, don’t you see that?” She sat down with a great thump, and began taking books out of Elizabeth’s hands to stack them. “I forget sometime that you a maiden lady. But I got a feeling you ain’t without some understandin’ of how the menfolk think. You consider what your daddy wants from you, and what you want from him, and how you gonna come out on top.”

  “You make it sound like a horse trade.”

  “It’s all a horse trade, when you got men to reckon with. White, black, or red. I expect even the yellow men ain’t much different. All made by the same God.” Curiosity stood and headed for the door.

  Elizabeth got up to follow her but Curiosity shooed her back into her room. “Now, you sit there and read for the afternoon, and let him think you up here packin’. See if he don’t come round to a boil by the time I put the ham on the table, ready to give you whatever you can think of to ask for.”

  And she disappeared down the stairs.

  Elizabeth was still standing on the landing when Curiosity called back up to her in a tone which would carry out to every room in the house.

  “Yes, Miz Elizabeth,” she called. “I’ll send up them trunks directly.”

  When Julian found his way home for dinner the judge met him at the door in a frantic frame of mind. After listening to his father’s story, Julian reluctantly agreed to try his hand at talking reason into Elizabeth. But she refused to admit her brother and would not answer a single one of his questions. Finally bored with the whole affair, Julian went down to table.

  “Well, you’ve done it now,” he said to the judge, helping himself to potatoes. “When she gets like this there’s no moving her.”

  The judge picked distractedly at his food. He was truly unhappy about the idea of losing Elizabeth. He was very fond of her, in spite of her strange and sometimes dangerous ideas. And her absence would make many practical problems almost impossible to resolve.

  From the sideboard, Curiosity watched the judge closely, which did not do anything to help his appetite. The judge and Curiosity were old adversaries: she ran the household the way she believed it must be run, and he thought it his duty to cross her on occasion. It was an ongoing irritation to him that she outmaneuvered him with so little effort, in ways he did not quite follow. The feeling of always being outthought, and by a Negro woman, no less, was vaguely unsettling, when he let himself dwell on it. But because the judge was so dependent on Curiosity’s excellent care and skill, and particularly fond of her biscuits and gravy, he didn’t allow himself to consider these things in any depth.

  “What exactly did you say to Elizabeth?”

  “I told her she shouldn’t have gone up Hidden Wolf without my permission.”

  “Ah.” Julian ate for a while in silence. His own appetite was excellent, and the ham was exactly to his taste. “That may be technically true, Father. But it is certainly not the way to endear yourself to Elizabeth.”

  “But she can’t leave,” the judge said miserably. “If she doesn’t marry Richard, I shall have to sell the land to him outright.”

  Julian glanced at Curiosity. “Perhaps we should discuss this later.”

  The judge was slightly puzzled by Julian’s unwillingness to talk in front of Curiosity. It had always been his fashion to discuss business in front of her, and sometimes with her: she was as closemouthed a creature as he had ever known, shrewd, but discreet. Thinking back, the judge would have been hard-pressed to recall an occasion on which he had ever seen her speak to a human being outside the family or guests at the table, or to give bad advice, when asked. He was about to pay her this compliment within his son’s hearing when Curiosity herself spoke.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth,” she said softly, and the men rose from their places with such suddenness that their serviettes dropped to the floor. There was silence for some minutes while Curiosity offered Elizabeth each of the dishes.

  “All packed?” Julian asked.

  Elizabeth cast him a cool look. “Almost.”

  She allowed Curiosity to fill her plate. “Curiosity,” she said. “Would you kindly inquire of Galileo whether or not he would be free to take me as far as Johnstown tomorrow? I am sure I can hire someone to escort me to Albany from there.”

  “Before we get Galileo all in a lather,” Julian said, leaning back in his chair to sip at his wine, “Father wonders if there is anything he can say or do to keep you here in Paradise.”

  Curiosity’s excellent food all tasted exactly alike to Elizabeth
: every biteful was dry and tasteless in her mouth. But she forced herself to eat, one steady forkful after another, a pause to cut her food, and onward. She felt her way cautiously, aware that she was walking an unknown and dangerous path, and that everything she wanted was at stake. When she thought she was enough in control, she raised her eyes to her brother.

  “Father knows exactly what it would take to keep me here,” she said. “But he is clearly unwilling to abide by the promises he made me before we came. Thus,” she said, still not looking at her father, “I will go back to my aunt and uncle Merriweather. Life may not be as exciting there as it is here, but at least the restrictions which I must live with are not misrepresented.”

  The judge’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “What have I done to deserve this contempt?” he asked. “Except worry for the welfare of my daughter?”

  “Your worry is not for me,” Elizabeth said, finally addressing her father directly. “Or, more accurately, it is only indirectly for me. If you were truly concerned for me, it would matter to you what I want for myself. But it is only what you want for me—from me—that concerns you.”

  She put her hands in her lap to steady them. The thrill of telling her true feelings without considering good manners or the propriety of what she had to say was intoxicating. With more calm than she felt, she met her father’s horrified gaze.

  “But I am arranging for your schoolhouse! At considerable expense, I might add, when cash is at a premium!”

  “Only after I questioned your good word in front of your friend,” Elizabeth said calmly. “And in the meantime I have no place to begin my work.”

  “There is not a spare bit of space in the village which would suit your purposes,” the judge said. “Is that not true? Ask anyone. Ask—ask Curiosity!” He turned to the woman, who stood in front of the sideboard with her hands crossed in front of her.

  “Isn’t it true, Curiosity, that there’s no suitable space for Miss Elizabeth’s school at the moment?”

  “Not in the village,” she answered, with a nod. “But,” she added, causing the judge to tense and turn toward her. “Of course, there’s the old homestead. That might do.”

  Elizabeth’s head snapped up in surprise. Curiosity looked back at her impassively.

  “The old homestead!” Julian turned to his father, astonished. “What old homestead is that?”

  “Up Hidden Wolf, just before the strawberry glen,” said Curiosity when the judge could do nothing more than sputter. “A cabin, just. But in good repair.”

  “My father clearly doesn’t wish me to teach school,” Elizabeth said. “Or he might have suggested the cabin before now.”

  The judge finally found his voice. “That’s not true!” He was flushed, torn between outrage that Curiosity should betray him thus, and the need to pacify Elizabeth. “The cabin is too old and rough for Elizabeth’s purposes, or I would have mentioned it.”

  “I see,” Elizabeth said. “Are you saying that if the cabin meets my needs, and I am satisfied with it, you will give it to me until the schoolhouse is built?”

  There was a silence as the judge struggled to find the right answer. He looked back and forth between his children, and then at Curiosity. “If that will keep you here,” he said finally. “Yes.”

  “That, and one other thing,” Elizabeth said, clasping her hands tightly together under the table.

  The judge looked utterly beaten. Elizabeth almost took pity on him, and then she felt Curiosity’s sharp eyes on her, and knew that she had to take advantage now.

  “I will choose my own friends, and go my own way, on my own terms,” she said. “Without interference from you. Of any kind.”

  Julian’s ever-present grin had disappeared, and he glanced at his father uneasily, but the judge was focused on his daughter.

  “What gives you such authority?” he asked, but in a weary tone.

  “I give it to myself. I take it for myself,” Elizabeth said. “Aren’t you familiar with those words, Father? ‘It is necessary to the happiness of man that he be mentally faithful to himself.’ ”

  The judge glanced up, a spark of his old temper in his eye. “I will give you what you want, on the condition that you stop quoting that frightful woman to me!”

  Elizabeth’s level gaze met her father’s.

  “I am very pleased to hear that we can come to an agreement. I would be very sorry to leave your household.”

  “Then the deal is done,” the judge said, his voice hoarse, turning to his plate for solace.

  “But—” Elizabeth continued, and he froze, his knuckles clutching white on his fork and knife. “—that was not Mrs. Wollstone craft.” “It wasn’t?”

  “No,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “It was Tom Paine. The Rights of Man.”

  XII

  “Miz Elizabeth, I think Washington could’ve made good use of your talents,” wheezed Henry Smythe as he dropped a crate of books on the floor. “I’m sure you could have found some boots and blankets while we was freezin’ on the Potomac back in ’76.” His tone was dry, but he smiled at her kindly, and Elizabeth understood that this was a compliment of the highest order.

  “Well, then,” she said, “perhaps you’d be willing to lend a hand with the firewood? We mustn’t have your grandson’s fingers too cold to hold a quill.”

  “It ain’t cold in here now,” observed Anna Hauptmann when Henry had closed the door behind him. She was hanging curtains and she looked over the cabin from her perch on the step stool. “Wouldn’t have thought you could get so many bodies together in this little place.”

  Elizabeth looked around herself with a great deal of satisfaction. It was true: after just two weeks the cabin’s transformation was almost complete. Jed McGarrity was making the final structural repairs with the help of his two boys. Isaac Cameron and his sons were putting the finishing touches on bookshelves and a blackboard while Charlie LeBlanc and two other men hammered boards into tables and benches. Martha Southern had come up to sweep the floors and cover them with an assortment of rag rugs.

  Behind the cabin, another group of men were constructing an outhouse, chopping and stacking wood, and clearing a path to the stream which would provide water for the school.

  “Now all you need is the children,” observed Anna, casting a significant glance down at Martha Southern.

  Martha handed Anna the next pair of curtains, coloring slightly. The younger woman touched her muslin cap with one rough hand. “I hope I will be sending my Jemima, Miz Elizabeth,” she said. “I pray to the Lord that my good husband will see the value.”

  Anna grunted. “That would require some divine intervention.”

  Elizabeth knew the women expected her to take up a part of this conversation, and in fact that the men had quieted down in the hope of hearing her respond. But she turned away and set to unpacking the next crate of books. Elizabeth was resolved not to let herself be pulled into this debate; she knew she could not convince people like Martha’s husband, Moses, and she was afraid that she might scare away the others in the process of trying to do so.

  This small silence was disturbed by a deep double rumble from the stomachs of Ian and Rudy McGarrity, nine and ten years old but alike enough to pass as twins. They looked up from under shaggy blond hair to grin with something closer to pride than embarrassment.

  “Why, Jed,” said Anna, when the laughter had died down. “Your boys got innards you could set the clock by. Getting on toward midday.”

  “And dinner waiting on the table, if I know my womenfolk.” Jed unfolded his long frame from the window sash he had been sanding and reached for his hat. “We’ll be back tomorrow in the early, Miz Elizabeth. Not much more to do.”

  The others began to put their work down and find their wraps.

  “Can we see you home?” Charlie LeBlanc asked Elizabeth as he had every day he had come to work on the cabin. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the grin on Anna Hauptmann’s face, which she steadfastly ignored. It st
ill came hard to Elizabeth to find herself the object of so much attention from young men, although she was improving in her ability to respond graciously.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “But I’d like to get these books unpacked.”

  She thanked each of the workers by name and stood on the porch with her shawl clutched around her until they had all disappeared down the path toward their midday meals and afternoon chores.

  Martha had lagged behind the others. Her face, freckled even in the dead of winter, was serious. “You can’t et books, you know,” she said. Distracted, she patted the rounded form of her belly as if to send this message to the child sleeping there, blessedly unaware of the possibility of hunger. Martha had been keeping house since she was nine, first for her father, and then for her husband; she didn’t seem to be able to put aside her basic function in life, which was to make sure that people were fed.

  “Thank you most kindly for your concern,” Elizabeth replied. “I just have a little more to do, but then I will go home and let Curiosity feed me properly.”

  Martha nodded, satisfied. But she still did not turn to go.

  “I don’t suppose my Moses will change his mind about the schooling,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Elizabeth. “But there’s nothing to forgive, after all.”

  “Jemima will be sore disappointed. But maybe—could we maybe borrow a Schoolbook, once in a while? I would like that, reading together of an evening.”

  “You are very welcome to borrow books whenever you like. Would you like to take one with you today?”

  Martha flashed a shy smile. “I would, but I think I had best not, Miz Elizabeth. Not till I’ve asked Moses about it. You know how men can be at times.”

  Elizabeth nodded, biting back words she knew could not serve any good purpose.

  When Martha was at the turning in the path, she turned back and raised an arm in farewell.