The Endless Forest

by Sara Donati

  And oh, how terribly complicated that would be. She hoped her brother had more sense.

  19

  Ethan came up for supper and brought a note from Callie, just a sentence scrawled over a bit of newspaper: What is keeping you?

  Martha read it aloud and Ethan smiled. “Not one to waste words, is she?”

  “Is she angry with me, do you think?”

  “Oh, no.” Ethan ran his hands through his hair. He was muddy from helping in the village and in spite of a severe scrubbing, his hands were stained. This was not the Ethan she had known in Manhattan, but the younger version of himself she had known growing up here in the village with Daniel and Blue-Jay as his companions. The boys had seemed to possess some kind of magic, something that protected them from harm. Or so it had seemed to Martha.

  He said, “If Callie were mad at you, she’d come right to the door and tell you so. The simple fact is that she’s been too busy trying to put things back together to come up here. Now she’s asking you to come down.”

  “Then I’ll go tomorrow morning,” Martha said. A difficult lesson, one she had learned imperfectly, was how to take criticisms—well deserved criticisms—with good grace.

  At table the Bonners talked about affairs in the village, progress made or delayed, the difficulty of getting enough hardware, and the fact that in the next days the trappers would start coming out of the bush with the winter’s work. Luke would spend all his time in the Red Dog meeting with them and negotiating prices, and then the drinking would start. The worst of them would lose every penny made in trade at cards or dice.

  Martha listened but she didn’t take part, and still she had the strong sense that someone was watching her. If she kept her eyes on her plate, the sensible thing to do, she never need know who.

  In the morning Martha stopped in the parlor where Elizabeth was talking to Anje and Joan about the week’s dinners and what was left in the root cellar.

  Elizabeth smiled at Martha as if the interruption were of no importance, but behind her back Joan scowled.

  “I wondered if I could do any errands for you while I’m in the village. Is there anything you need?”

  Anje said, “We are low on sugar, if there’s any to be had.”

  “White or brown?”

  The LeBlanc girls looked at each other and laughed, for which they got a very sharp look from Elizabeth. She explained, “It’s rare that we see white sugar here. When I go to Johnstown I bring some back, but mostly we use brown.”

  “What do people eat in Manhattan, then?” Joan wanted to know. “Honey on your biscuits and white sugar in your tea?”

  Martha felt her face flush warm.

  “Joan,” Elizabeth began, but Martha put out a hand to stop her.

  “I’ll hear worse, I’m sure, before the day is done. You can’t protect me from everything, though you are so good enough to try.”

  Anje’s whole face twitched. Trying to hold back a laugh, Martha thought. Or a snicker.

  “I will bring what sugar I can find.”

  Voices followed her through the door and down the hall. The girls and Elizabeth, back and forth. She must see about lodgings of her own. She had been a burden on the Bonners for long enough.

  Martha remembered very well what the weather could be on the edge of the endless forests, and so she had dressed carefully: wool stockings and two underskirts and her thickest boots, along with a cape lined with fox fur with matching mittens, a muff, and a scarf that itched terribly but kept out the cold like nothing else. She had to leave her good bonnet on the shelf, and took instead the one of boiled wool lined with fur.

  All that, and she was still cold. She hurried along as quickly as was safe, keeping an eye on anything that might cause her to lose her footing. Before she had reached the crossroads her skirts were heavy with mud to the knee, and she was breathing loudly. It was really very odd, that she should have been cold a half hour ago and now be dripping with perspiration. But none of that was important.

  She should be thinking about Callie, who waited for her at the Red Dog.

  “Why the Red Dog?” she had asked Ethan before they went in to the table.

  “Because I wouldn’t let her sleep in the cider house, which is the only proper building left standing on her property.”

  Martha saw something in his expression that she had never seen before, distress or unhappiness of some kind. Now she wondered if there was a connection. It had never occurred to her before, but why should Ethan not take an interest in Callie?

  “Why hasn’t she started rebuilding?” Martha asked.

  “Because she doesn’t have the money, and she won’t mortgage the orchards, and she won’t accept gifts. At least, she won’t accept them from me or Luke or Daniel or Nathaniel either, though we’ve all offered more than once.”

  Martha said, “She might accept an offer from me. I could afford to build a house for her, isn’t that so?”

  His smile was a rare sight. “You could afford to build a dozen houses and it would not make a dent in your account books.”

  Every year she sat down with Will Spencer and Ethan to hear the report on what they liked to call her holdings or her investments, and every year she deliberately tried not to listen. She could not conceive of such amounts of money. It only made her think of her mother, and what Jemima would do if she knew about it.

  “I don’t know that Callie will accept your offer any more than she took mine,” Ethan said.

  “Nor will we, unless I ask,” Martha said.

  This conversation played itself over in Martha’s head as she walked carefully downhill, her skirts gathered tightly in one fist so she could watch her feet. The other way to the village—the one that went right by the Downhill House—would have been faster, but Martha was unused to muddy lanes and preferred the longer, not quite so difficult alternative.

  She turned onto the Johnstown road, and then turned again in the direction of the village.

  At the crossroads she let out a sigh of relief, when the worst was behind her. The main lane was heavily traveled and deeply rutted, but there was also a footpath that ran along it, hard-packed and secure. And just up ahead she could see the front door of the Red Dog and light shining from the windows.

  This wasn’t so very bad, she told herself, and with that thought the earth beneath her left foot disappeared and her leg plunged up to the thigh in cold mud.

  Even as it was happening the thought came to her: How had she forgotten about Big Muck, well known to every person with two good feet within fifty miles?

  She scrambled backward and tugged, but Big Muck wasn’t having any. Her leg slipped down another notch, and her skirts began to follow. Martha yanked again, and this time Big Muck let go with a sound like a drawn-out and very wet kiss.

  She found herself on her back, looking into the stormy sky. Lying prone on the lane while rain plopped into the mud and onto her face, Martha hiccupped a laugh. She raised a hand to her nose and recalled too late the sorry condition of her gloves.

  This time the laughter came in fits and starts between bouts of spitting out mud and struggling to sit up. When she finally managed that small task she sat leaning back on her hands as though she was on a picnic in a meadow. Her skirts and mantle were caked with muck and dripping water. The muff was lost, probably never to be found. And down at the end of her left leg, five muddy toes.

  Big Muck had sucked the boot off her foot and taken the stocking for good measure. She wiggled her muddy toes and lay down again on the lane, and now the laugh came up from deep in her belly and she was helpless to do anything more than hold her sides.

  “Got you but good,” a voice said over her.

  Daniel Bonner. She closed her eyes, but there was no ignoring the fact that of all people, Daniel Bonner had come across her like this.

  “Can’t remember last time somebody walked right into Big Muck. Maybe you’re the first,” his disembodied voice went on amiably.

  “A dubious honor,�
�� Martha muttered. There was still mud on her mouth, caked in the corners. And on top of all that, the rain was picking up its tempo.

  “I came over to lend you a hand, but you look happy just where you are.”

  That brought Martha up. “You were watching me?”

  His broad-rimmed hat kept rain off his neck, but it also left his face in shadow and hid his expression. Martha suspected that he was smiling.

  He said, “We had this very conversation just yesterday as I recall.”

  The sound of a window being thrown open made them both look in the direction of the Red Dog. Callie Wilde was leaning out, and she did not look happy.

  “Daniel Bonner, you help her up right this minute and don’t take no for an answer.” And then: “Martha! Come on in here, girl; you’ll catch your death.”

  Daniel held out his hand. It was a big hand that was stained with ink and dirt too, callused and hard. Martha grabbed with one muddy glove, and he pulled her up and onto her feet. She wobbled for a moment and then her balance came back.

  “Your bonnet?”

  She looked around herself and shrugged. “Lost, I fear.”

  “Well, one good thing came out of this little adventure, then.”

  She was about to protest the idea that her bonnet was not worth saving when Uz Brodie came around the corner on his old mule, and Martha let out a resigned sigh. By noon everybody in Paradise would hear all about Martha Kirby standing in the crossroads, mud-covered, bare-headed, and half barefoot. Holding on to Daniel Bonner’s hand.

  “Maybe he didn’t recognize me,” she muttered, taking her hand back with a jerk.

  “If that makes you feel better,” Daniel said.

  Martha stomped along beside him, as lopsided as she was mortified.

  “I’m sorry we have got to do this in the kitchen,” Becca LeBlanc told Martha. They were standing between a screen and the cooking hearth, she and Becca and Callie, all of them peeling off layer after layer of mud-caked linen and cotton and wool.

  Martha hadn’t imagined her visit with Callie this way; the whole situation was so absurd, she had trouble not laughing aloud.

  Becca said, “Lift up your foot so I can get this skirt off you.”

  “I really could manage on my own,” Martha protested, and Becca put her hands on her hips and pursed her mouth.

  Martha lifted her foot. Becca was so lean and wiry that she seemed to have no bosom or hips at all. Mostly she was a cheerful sort, as anyone married to Charlie LeBlanc would have to be.

  “I know this is embarrassing,” Becca said. “If I had a room free you’d have some privacy, but with the flood and all, every room I got to let is spoken for.”

  “My goodness,” Martha said. “Please don’t apologize. This is very kind of you, and I appreciate your help.”

  Alice LeBlanc poured another bucket of hot water into the hip bath and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. She said, “Talk is cheap.”

  Callie jumped on her before Martha had even drawn a breath.

  “Well now, Alice, maybe you can tell me. Has Martha here ever run up a debt she couldn’t settle? I’m asking because you talk like you know her to be somebody who doesn’t pull her own weight. One thing I know for certain, and that is that Martha could outwork you hobbled and half starved. But I guess you must have had some bad experience with her, some reason to talk to her like that, so rude and disrespectful.”

  In her confusion, Martha turned to Becca, ready to offer payment for the use of the tub and the towels, but Becca wasn’t even looking at her.

  “Alice,” Becca said. “Your mouth is hanging open. Close it. The next thing I want to hear is you apologizing to Martha here. You’ll apologize; otherwise, you and me, we’ll have a private conversation in the washhouse. I don’t care how old you are, I won’t tolerate such rude behavior. As for you, Martha—” She paused to take a breath.

  “I am glad to see you back here in Paradise, and I hope you’ll stay, though I’d understand if you didn’t, what with the welcome you’re getting.” She glared at her daughter. “I know you got some bad memories, but I’m a great believer in starting over fresh, and I think you could be happy here, I really do. Now Alice,” she turned back to her daughter. “You got something you want to say?”

  The girl stood there with her arms crossed and her face turned to the wall. Her whole body trembled with anger.

  “Alice!”

  “I apologize if I was rude.” She spoke to the wall.

  Becca flapped her apron. “Do you want me to take my hand to your backside?”

  Alice turned to face them and Martha was shocked to see that she was trembling with anger. She couldn’t imagine why Alice LeBlanc would hate her so sincerely.

  “I am sorry that I was rude to Martha. I shouldn’t have said what I said. But I can think it, and I do think it, and you can switch me to Albany and back again, Ma, but that’s the truth. Why did she have to come back here when—”

  “Ah.” Callie’s smile could be frightening, and it was focused on Alice. “It’s that way, is it?”

  The high color in Alice’s cheeks drained away just that easily. She turned and walked so quickly from the kitchen that she was almost running.

  Becca was looking at Callie. “What do you mean, it’s that way? What way? Alice may be testy at times but she’s always been a good girl.”

  “Good girls fall in love just like bad ones,” Callie said.

  “Who is she supposed to be in love with?” Becca demanded. “Has she been making eyes at that Yarnell boy?”

  Martha said, “And what does that have to do with me? Why is she so mad at me?”

  Callie’s small, narrow face turned to her. There was a sadness there, and a good amount of resignation.

  “It’s about Daniel. He’s a rare prize, and more than a few girls have set their caps for him. Nobody’s happy about you coming back and grabbing him for yourself.”

  “Grabbing? I’ve been grabbing after Daniel?” Martha was horrified. “But that’s—that’s—”

  She wanted to say it wasn’t true, but something held her back.

  “It don’t matter if it’s true or not,” Callie interrupted her. “Alice thinks it is, and if she thinks it is, then everybody else does too. Now you had best get into that water before it’s cold again.”

  Martha was relieved to be able to disappear, even if it was only behind an old carved screen. She needed to make sense of what Callie had said. She felt herself blushing. Completely irritated with herself, she stripped off her chemise—even that was muddy at the hem—and stepped into the hip bath. The water was blessedly hot, and she sank into it thankfully.

  On the other side of the screen, Becca had come back into the kitchen and was proclaiming her thoughts on the whole matter.

  “Foolishness,” she said. “I won’t have it. Those girls of mine will get an earful this evening, I promise you that. Chasing after a man who ain’t interested, like a, like a trollop! Did I raise my girls that way? No, I did not. I will see to it your brothers hear about this, you mark my word,” Becca called loudly. “They care about this family’s good name even if you don’t. Pete will set you straight, that he will. I’ll see to it.”

  There was a sound of a stool scraping along the floor and then Callie’s voice from the other side of the screen.

  “I have to say, Martha, you took your time coming down to the village, but then you did it with style.”

  Martha closed her eyes and shifted so that the water came up to her shoulders. “I might as well have hired a drummer to walk in front of me.”

  But she had to smile, a little at least. Sometimes the only thing you could do was laugh at yourself, and this seemed to be one of those times.

  Callie was saying, “Flood dirt is stubborn. Here.”

  A cake of soap came flying around the corner of the screen and plopped into the water.

  “Don’t use it on your hair,” Callie said. “That coarse stuff would do awful things to
it and that would be a shame.”

  Martha slid down further into the water. “Callie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Have I ruined what good name I had?”

  Callie barked a short laugh. “You worried about your reputation?”

  Yes, Martha should have said. Yes, I am.

  “It’s none of my business anyway,” Callie said.

  Becca called from the other side of the room. “Ain’t nobody asked me but I think Daniel could do a lot worse than Martha. And he ain’t getting any younger. But Martha, if you want to look around a bit, don’t you forget about my Roy. He’s the best worker at the mill, so says Marcus Reed; you can ask him yourself.”

  Martha clamped her mouth shut hard on the urge to giggle, but Callie wasn’t amused.

  “Why would you go putting ideas in her head?” Callie snapped. “Why is everybody so interested in pairing people up? Is there an ark somewhere I overlooked? Daniel is happy the way he is.”

  “Is that so?” Becca said, mildly.

  “It is so,” Callie shot back.

  Martha raised her voice. “Could we please stop talking about Daniel Bonner? I am here to see you, Callie. Tell me how things stand.”

  There was a short silence and then Callie made a sound deep in her throat. “Why would you want to talk about that sorry subject?”

  “Because I want to know,” Martha said. “Because I’d like to help if I can.”

  “You can come shovel mud anytime you got the urge,” Callie said, her dry humor coming to the surface again.

  “Do you have to joke about everything? I’m serious.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Callie reeled off a list of things lost in the flood, from her home to her chickens.

  “What about your stock?”

  “I lost some trees. But the cider house came through fine, and no damage to the press,” she finished. “I could fix up a little place for myself right there in the cider house—there’s room for a bed—but Ethan Middleton has got it in his head that it wouldn’t be seemly—”