by Sara Donati
While Mrs. Peyton talked Martha kept her gaze fixed on the hall table heaped with wedding presents, all topped by a silver bowl overflowing with calling cards and notes. The wedding of the season.
She finished. “She called me degenerate.”
That word had struck harder than anything that came before, because it was not new to her. It was the word she had chosen, after many years of careful thought, to assign to her mother. And Mrs. Peyton hung it around Martha’s own neck, tied it with knots that might never be undone.
Daniel was shaking his head. “No,” he said. His tone calm and sure. “That word does not apply to you.”
“How can you know?” She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “Wasn’t this—” She gestured at the settle with its flattened cushions. “Doesn’t this prove her point?”
He took her chin between his fingers and tipped her face up to him. “It’s a gift you give to me,” he said.
“One you don’t want?”
“Of course I want it. I want you. But I’ve pushed this hard. Maybe I’ve just overwhelmed you. Maybe tomorrow you’d wake up and know you made a mistake. I wanted to give you time to think it through before we—before we took this last step.”
“Is that what it is?” Martha drew in a deep breath. “Is that what you call it, a last step?”
His eyes scanned her face, and then he lowered his head and kissed her. “And the first too. You have to know, Martha. I’m not one to jump to conclusions. I know my mind, and I know that I want you more than I want anything else in this life.” He drew in a sharp breath.
“Except for the use of your arm,” she said. “You can say that. You must be thinking it. Anyone would.”
“Except,” he said slowly, “for the use of my arm. That’s something else we need to talk about. But not right now.”
Right now he used his good arm to bring her up against him, and Martha went gladly.
31
Birdie was up first on Sunday morning, even before her father. She dressed as quietly as she could and made her way downstairs into the silent kitchen, where she got right to work.
She brought in water, stirred the fire in the hearth and got a good blaze going, cut what was left of yesterday’s bread, and fetched butter and the last of last summer’s plum preserves from the cellar. When her father came downstairs the table was set and Birdie was just setting out a platter of cold bacon and cheese.
He didn’t look particularly surprised to see her. Late last night he would have heard Curiosity’s story from Ma, and he was quicker than most men when it came to figuring out moods.
“I want to go down to the village so I’ll be there when Hannah and the others come over the bridge,” she said. “I’ve done all my chores. I would have started the porridge too, but I can’t reach the big kettle. Can I go?”
Her da could look right through her, it seemed to Birdie. After a minute he said, “No farther than the bridge.”
Which was all the permission she needed. Before Ma or the little people could appear and spoil her plan, Birdie flew out the door. She held her breath as she passed the Downhill House, for fear that she would be seen and hailed. Before she talked to anybody about last night, she needed to talk to Hannah.
Hannah was the one most likely to understand the dreams that had plagued her. Somehow Curiosity’s story had got all tangled up with the flood and other things and Birdie just didn’t know what to make of any of it. In some things Hannah was far more Kahnyen’kehàka than white, and reading dreams was one of them. She would take Birdie’s worries seriously.
As would her mother, of course. But she wasn’t ready to talk to Ma yet.
She was glad to be outside so early. The growing weather had settled in and the morning was very clear, so bright that it seemed as if she could see each pine needle and budding leaf. She did mean to ask Lily if there were names for all the different greens in the world. To Birdie it seemed impossible but somehow necessary. Without names it was very hard to recall the exact shade of the new leaves on the sugar maple, something she wanted to be able to do, though she couldn’t say why.
Birdie found a spot on an outcropping of rock where she could warm herself in the sun and see into the village as far as the bridge. As soon as she caught sight of the others she’d run to meet them, take Hannah’s hand, and pull her aside so they could talk the rest of the way home. Before she was overrun by little people who would be as happy to see her as Birdie was.
It was so good to be warm like this that she felt herself slipping away into sleep more than once, and then had to get up and run in place. A walk up the mountain would keep her awake, but Da had said she mustn’t, and so Birdie turned her back on the bridge and focused on the pastures and fields. Friend Blackhouse was crossing the Rountree’s pasture on the far side, carrying a rake over one shoulder and a pannier on his back. He was wearing a widerimmed straw hat against the sun, but it was Arthur Blackhouse; Birdie could tell just about anybody by the way they walked. Just the same way a person could name a bird, by the way it moved itself through the air. Shapes within shapes.
The planting would begin just as soon as there was no more chance of a frost at night. The best thing about this time of year was the smell of sunshine on newly turned earth.
The faint sound of horses coming toward town on the Johnstown road came to her. More than one horse, and the rumble of wheels. The only people who were away that Birdie knew about were Praise-Be Cunningham, who had gone to buy some lambs, and the Magistrate, who had taken off for Albany on a big gelding called Popeye. Whatever was coming, there were four horses or more, pulling something bigger than a flatbed wagon.
In the ten minutes it took for the travelers to come into view, Birdie debated with herself on whether she should withdraw to a more hidden spot. Then she saw them and forgot everything else.
The four horses were perfectly matched and very beautiful, and they pulled a carriage the likes of which Birdie had only ever seen in Johnstown or heard described. A closed carriage, very large, it was painted a shiny black with yellow trim around the doors and curtained windows. The wheel spokes were bright red where they weren’t covered in mud. There was a lot of luggage tied to the top, and two coachmen who sat on the box. They were perfectly matched too, so alike in face and figure that they could only be twins. They were strongly built, with complexions a far deeper black than any of the Africans Birdie knew. The coachmen wore red coats with brass buttons, high-crowned beaver hats, and fawn-colored breeches spattered with mud. They must have set out from Johnstown long before dawn, which was in itself so odd that Birdie could hardly make sense of it. Who would do such a thing, and why?
She wouldn’t have been surprised if a queen had stepped out of the carriage, but when the coachmen opened the door the woman who appeared seemed just another lady, maybe as old as Hannah and Jennet. She was very finely dressed, in a beautiful traveling cloak of deep red velvet with embroidery around the hem, and fur on the cuffs and collar. Her bonnet was made of the same heavy velvet, with a scoop brim so deep that Birdie couldn’t make out anything about her face. She held out a gloved hand and one of the coachmen helped her down. She didn’t seem to mind the poor condition of the lane. She just looked around herself, turning in a circle to scan everything from earth to sky. Birdie wondered what she was looking for.
The man who came out of the carriage behind her was older, with a full iron-gray beard. He was just as fashionably dressed with his long coat and high hat.
He turned to speak a word to somebody and then a boy came out. An ordinary boy, no bigger or smaller than most, brown of hair, pale, but dressed like the grown-ups in clothes too fine for traveling.
The three of them stood there for just a moment while the man spoke at the boy, who was nodding as though he didn’t like what he was hearing but knew better than to speak back. Then the lady turned her head and called out. “Helene!” in a strong, vaguely displeased voice.
Two more people stepped out
of the carriage, both of them as dark-skinned as the coachmen, and both dressed plainly. Servants, their arms filled with leather satchels and boxes.
Who were these people, and what were they looking for in Paradise? Birdie was so absorbed in watching them that she didn’t hear the others approaching from behind her until Hannah was standing there. Her sister put a hand out and Birdie took it, coming down from her perch in a hop. But Hannah wasn’t looking at her at all; her attention was on the newcomers.
Jennet said, “Hannah? Do ye ken those folk?”
Ethan came forward to stand beside Hannah. Birdie saw then that Daniel was not among the party-goers. Nor was Martha. What this might mean would have to wait, because there was something wrong. Hannah and Ethan wore identical expressions, faces wiped clean of all emotion. Ben came to stand beside Hannah, his expression concerned and watchful.
Without turning her head Hannah said, “Little sister, has Martha come down the mountain yet?”
Birdie almost jumped, she was so surprised by this question.
“No,” she said. “Isn’t she with you?”
Ethan said, “Ben, could you please go back and find Daniel and Martha? Tell them Jemima is come, and they should sit tight where they are. As soon as we figure out what’s going on, we’ll bring word.”
Jemima. Birdie’s mouth fell open and she shut it with a clicking sound. That lady in the fine clothes was Jemima Southern, as close to a witch as Paradise had ever come.
Hannah looked down at Birdie and managed a grim smile. “Run,” she said. “Run home and fetch your ma and da and Curiosity. Tell them Jemima is come back to Paradise and she’s at the Red Dog. Go now, as fast as you can.”
Birdie ran.
—
Nathaniel said, “Boots, will you let me do the talking?”
It was a quarter hour since Birdie had come bursting through the door with her news. Elizabeth’s expression had gone very still, in a way Nathaniel rarely saw. In the grip of an anger like this, all the common sense and rational thought she valued so highly went missing. This angry she could do anything at all. March into the open when men were shooting at each other, for example. She had done that once, and taken a good year off his life.
He almost felt sorry for Jemima.
Nathaniel looked behind himself. He hoped it would take a while to get Curiosity’s Ginny hitched to the trap. The longer it took Curiosity and Birdie to get back to the village the better. He didn’t want to have to worry about Curiosity’s heart giving out or Birdie getting in the way of trouble. Of all the children, Birdie was most like her mother.
“Boots?”
“I have no wish to speak to that woman,” she said tersely.
“I know that,” he said. “But your temper has the upper hand right now.”
“You think I am not equal to dealing with the likes of Jemima Southern?”
“I know you are,” Nathaniel said. “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s Martha, and that boy. Whoever he is.”
She pulled up short and looked at him, her brow lowered. “You know I won’t do anything to compromise Martha’s well-being.”
Nathaniel wondered if it really was Martha, or mostly Daniel on her mind. Or if maybe there wasn’t much difference now, in the way she looked at things. He leaned down and kissed her briefly. “I do know that, Boots. That’s why I’m asking for you to step back and let me have a go at her first.”
She didn’t respond, and that was a good sign.
There were a lot of people in the lane outside the Red Dog. Few Quakers, but most of the folks who knew Jemima from way back. Old Jed MacGarrity and his daughter Jane, the Camerons, Pete Dubonnet, a half dozen others. Word had spread fast.
Jemima didn’t have any friends in this crowd; folks were not likely to forget nor to forgive the things she had done.
Nathaniel and Elizabeth didn’t stop to talk, though many called out to them. Nathaniel smiled and raised a hand in greeting as if there was nothing more pressing on his mind than ale and Becca’s rabbit stew. He caught sight of Ethan and Luke and steered Elizabeth that way.
Luke said, “Now that you’re here I’ll go over to the schoolhouse. Hannah and Jennet went there to wait for you. The other one—” he clearly did not want to say the name aloud—“is in the Red Dog. With her party.”
Ethan stayed behind. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but then he never did. There was a calm about Ethan that came from deep inside, and was his own. Nathaniel had the idea he was lonely, though he couldn’t have said why.
“Go on to the school,” Ethan said. “Hannah will be glad to see you.”
There was no time to ask for impressions, and it wasn’t something Nathaniel wanted to talk about in front of so many people, anyway.
“Just as soon as we say hello to ’Mima,” Nathaniel said, and Ethan stepped away, glad to be out of the drama.
Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Martha?”
“Still on Hidden Wolf with Daniel,” Ethan said. “Ben ran back to tell them to stay put for the time being.”
“Good thinking,” Nathaniel said, and he squeezed Ethan’s shoulder. “So, Boots,” he said. “Let’s go on in and see what Jemima has on her mind.”
Elizabeth had been imagining the young woman Jemima of ten years ago when she left Paradise, big with child. This woman was Jemima and she wasn’t. The same face and frame, but she held herself differently, as if the fine clothes she wore pressed her into a new shape. She was watchful, but otherwise there was little to read from her expression. But then she had been preparing herself for this meeting, and there she had them at a disadvantage.
She held a boy by the hand. Her son, and Nicholas Wilde’s, or at least, Elizabeth thought, that’s what she meant them to believe.
That idea made her deeply uneasy. She thought of Callie and Martha, who would both be half sisters to the boy. How they would feel to learn of his existence; whether there would be resentment or animosity or simple disbelief. The truth was, nobody in Paradise would believe anything Jemima said. She had lied too often and too well.
Martha was safe on Hidden Wolf for the moment, but where was Callie on this Sunday morning? She should not be expected to deal with her stepmother or the boy, not yet. It occurred to Elizabeth then that Ethan was still outside because he meant to intercept Callie before she could walk into this situation.
Elizabeth had known Jemima for a very long time. When she first started teaching school Jemima had been in her class. Not a dull child, by any means, but dark of spirit and view of the world, distrustful, and above all other things, ruthless. Even as a very young girl she had not hesitated to take what she needed for herself and never cared about the repercussions. She had manipulated Isaiah Kuick into a sham marriage, and after he died and her plans were thwarted, she had stewed in her anger in the old mill house. How Martha had survived that household and remained sweet-natured, that Elizabeth would never really understand. It made no sense for a child to take after a parent it had never known, but Martha was most like Liam Kirby. It ran contrary to Elizabeth’s own theories about personality and heredity. All of which she would have to reexamine anyway, given the revelations of the last day.
As much as Jemima had been disliked in the years after her first husband died, people had recognized how hard things were for her, a widow woman with a young child, no way to earn a living beyond taking in laundry and leasing out the millworks for a fraction of its value. Then she had married Nicholas Wilde under circumstances that people were still talking about and would continue to talk about for years to come. On occasion Elizabeth heard parts of these conversations in the trading post.
Poor out-of-her-head Dolly, wandering around in a fog since she gave birth but still, didn’t nobody have the right to let the woman walk into a blizzard barefoot, and wan’t that exactly what Jemima had done? No sir, there wan’t any excuse for that, and if you was to look at it real close, why, you’d have to agree that it was most likely Jemima who had clunked Cookie ove
r the head and tipped her over the rail of the old bridge into the lake. Because Cookie would never have let Dolly wander away in the first place, everybody knew that. And all that because Jemima set her sights on poor Nicholas. And then Nicholas running off and getting himself killed. Of course Callie was odd after all that bad fortune come down on her, wouldn’t you be too?
Elizabeth never participated in these discussions. There was nothing to be gained. And now here was Jemima come back to the place where she started.
She was saying, “If you can refund the money we sent to hold the rooms, we will seek accommodations elsewhere.”
As if they stood in the lobby of a hotel in Manhattan or London. Her voice and tone and modulation, all so changed that it was hard to credit. She had made herself over into—what, exactly? It was Jemima; of that there was no doubt. She had never been beautiful, but as a younger woman she had been comely, with glossy brown hair and regular features. She might have been pretty if she ever truly smiled, but she had been consumed by dissatisfaction and anger for all of her life, and those things showed as clear as tattoos on her face. But something had changed.
“I can’t give you a room I don’t have,” Becca was saying. “Since the flood I’m full up, and those folks have got nowhere else to go until their homes are livable again.”
Charlie said, “And we don’t have the money neither. You could take your meals here and we’ll give you a bill of credit for the rest.”
Even Charlie LeBlanc knew how silly that offer sounded, because the color rose right up to his bald head and he started fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
“You could just go back to where you came from.” Jane Cunningham spoke up clear and loud from the back of the room. “Get in that fancy buggy of yours and go.”
Missy O’Brien pushed past Elizabeth. “I’m surprised you have the nerve to show your face here, you murder—”
There was a quick movement as the man beside Jemima turned. The look on his face was so cold that Missy swallowed hard and took a step back.