by Sara Donati
It is best this way, Gabriel. In thy heart thou must know that in the end, we should both chafe at the other’s needs and grow resentful, and that I could not bear. I regret nothing. I am only sorry that I will never be able to tell thy daughter about thee and that she will never know the pleasure of thy fellowship.
And so I wish thee well and happy in thy travels, my love. May our Lord’s light shine upon thee.
Maddie
Dear Maddie,
It is a year since I returned to Paradise to hear from good friend Curiosity that thou wert gone away to England, there to stay. At first I could not credit this report and I promised that I would come back every season to see if thou might have left word for me.
Now it seems I must accept that thou art gone away from this place, from thy husband and from me. I know thee, Maddie. I know thee in thy bones, and I know thou would not do such a thing lightly.
Thou hast removed thyself from temptation’s way, and still I wonder, if one day thou should see me at thy door, so many miles from here, how wouldst thou greet me? As a friend, or something less? I confess I cannot bear the thought that thou might turn away from me.
But above all things I care for thy happiness and well-being, and so I must also respect thy wishes. There is an expedition leaving in a few days’ time for Spanish Florida and beyond, and I have been invited to join the company. It will be a difficult two or perhaps three years before I return to this part of the world. Every day I will think of thee and pray that thou might find fulfillment and joy in thy life. To honor thee, I can do no less.
With all my heart, my love
Gabriel
After a long time, when she was calm, Elizabeth reached across the table and covered Curiosity’s hand with her own.
41
Late that night Elizabeth lay sleepless beside Nathaniel, her thoughts dashing one way and then the other. Daniel, Martha, Curiosity, Ethan, Callie, Curiosity. Jemima. Curiosity. Curiosity.
Nathaniel rolled onto his side and said, “I can hear you thinking, Boots. Talk to me.”
“We’ve been talking all day,” she said, her voice wavering. “Do you think another conversation would help?”
He smiled sleepily. “I do. This is me you’re talking to, and nobody else listening in. No need to hold back.”
“I haven’t been holding anything back.”
“No?”
Elizabeth tried to gather her thoughts. “Do you mean about Curiosity?”
“I’d say the fact that you brought her name up so quick means something. That story she told, that’s not something you can hide away and forget you ever heard.”
Elizabeth recognized the wisdom in this, even if she wasn’t particularly eager to pursue the discussion.
“I think the thing that surprised me most was the way she looked at me when she had finished. She truly believed I would turn her away and never speak to her again.”
“Sixty years holding that story back, I don’t doubt she was worried. And maybe rightly so. Talking about what happened so long ago has raised ghosts, is all.”
“She’s thinking about my mother.”
“And Gabriel. Boots, do you think your mother was unhappy?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and sent her mind back to her ten-year-old self, just Birdie’s age. That last good summer before the sudden illness that took her mother’s life. She had so many clear memories of those few months. Over the years her mother’s face had faded, but still Elizabeth had a sense of her expression. Always calm, often cheerful. A poor relation, Quaker, an odd American with strange ideas but still valued and respected in Aunt Merriweather’s household. She had been the voice of reason and logic tempered with kindness, and all the children had come to her in times of hurt and uncertainty. Never once had Elizabeth heard her mother complain, but she had often heard her laugh.
“I don’t think she was unhappy, but what do children really understand of adults?” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps she wept every night.”
“She had the chance to come back here, but she stayed where she was. I think that means something.”
“I’ve wondered about that too,” Elizabeth said. “What a shock it must have been when her husband showed up, wanting to claim his wife and daughter both and take us back to Paradise. I wonder if she felt anger or only sadness. I think the fact that she conceived Julian during that visit is evidence enough that she struggled with guilt and remorse.”
“If she had brought you back here right then, we would have grown up together.”
“That’s an odd idea,” Elizabeth said. “I wonder what would have become of us.”
They were quiet for a long minute and then Elizabeth realized that Nathaniel had drifted off to sleep. As if to say, where else could we possibly be, but together in this bed, with children and grandchildren sleeping soundly nearby. Because neither of them could imagine a life without the other in it.
42
When they had been husband and wife for two days the rains stopped and the sun came out with a fierce purpose, and so Daniel and Martha started for home at dawn. The puppy slept in a basket tied to Martha’s saddle, apparently unruffled by the bumpy road. The plan was to reach Paradise by early afternoon and to go directly to his family at Uphill House.
“There will be some sort of party,” Daniel said, as if she might not like the idea. In fact, Martha did find it a little disconcerting.
“I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”
“Not if you want to stay in Birdie’s good graces. She dearly loves a party.”
“Just family?”
She felt him looking at her. “Today, yes. I can’t promise what will happen tomorrow at school.”
“Oh, that I don’t mind,” Martha said. “You don’t think it will be awkward, me taking over the younger students?”
“Hell, no,” Daniel said. “It’ll be a lot easier all the way around. A new bride puts most people in a cheerful mood.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He squinted at her.
“Is there somebody specific you’re worried about?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t have many admirers among girls my age.”
“Aha,” Daniel said. “Alice LeBlanc?”
“Among others.”
“They’ll get over it,” he said.
Which was certainly true, but how long it would take and how awkward the process might be, those questions seemed not to interest Daniel. She had finally found one thing in which he and Teddy were alike.
Maybe, she reasoned to herself, this disinterest had to do with the fact that male friendships were never quite so intense or close as those females forged. Or, a less charitable interpretation was simply that now that they were married—she still stumbled over that idea—she didn’t need anyone else in her life. She had him, and his family, and what else was necessary?
Daniel was saying, “We could go to Lake in the Clouds and stay there until the business with Jemima is settled. You never have to see her if you don’t want to.”
“Tempting,” Martha said. “But hiding from my mother has never worked, and I wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction. I have to stand up to her if I’m ever to have any peace.”
Daniel’s slow smile said that she had surprised him, or pleased him, or both. For her own part, she could only hope she could live up to the goal she had set for herself.
“And anyway, I don’t like the idea of leaving Callie to deal with it all. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“If you put it that way,” Daniel said. “It makes sense. But I should point out to you that the Bonner men will keep an eye on Callie and make sure she’s left alone.”
“I’m not so sure she wants to be alone,” Martha said.
She wondered if it was possible to explain how she felt about this, and decided that she must try.
“Everyone has abandoned her, all her life,” she said. “Her mother, Cookie, her father. Jemima. And then I went to Manhattan, and that mu
st have been the hardest blow. She’s distrustful and with good reason. I want to try to make her understand that she can depend on me. Though I have to admit I didn’t get off to such a good start.
“I should never have spoken so quick,” Martha finished. “She was in a fragile state of mind and I should have known better. She is very angry at me. I only hope I can mend things between us.”
There was just too much to worry about, and so Martha turned her attention to the day, bright and clear with a warm breeze that lifted the hem on her skirt and made the grass dance. Deadwood and debris from the flood was everywhere, but things were already surrendering to the force of nature, disappearing under layers of moss and serving as home to countless numbers of small creatures. Now and then they caught a glimpse of the river running on its way to the sea. Just weeks ago it had roused itself to strike, an image which explained why the Mohawk called the west branch of the Sacandaga twisting snake.
Martha shifted in the saddle in an effort to find a more comfortable spot. Or a less painful one. When she saw Daniel padding the saddle before they set out, she had found herself as capable of blushing as she ever was. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that Daniel would be aware of how sore she was, but then it was his doing, after all.
In that moment she was glad the trail had narrowed and he was ahead of her, because she was red all the way to her hairline and worse still: He would know what she was thinking about if he caught sight of her face.
He sat easy and straight in the saddle. Beneath the loose linen shirt and the knives and tomahawks—such a great number of them—she could see the shape of him and the way the muscles moved. All the museums in the world and all the sculpture could not have prepared her for the reality of Daniel Bonner. She kept discovering things that took her by surprise, things that she would have asked him about if she had had the words. And the nerve.
“What are you thinking about?” He was looking back at her over his shoulder.
Your buttocks, she might have said. As round and firm and smooth as fruit. The texture of your skin. The smell of you.
His mind was somewhere else entirely. He was saying, “We’ll find a way to put Callie at ease.”
“Yes,” she answered in the most serious tone she could summon. “I know we will.”
But there was a gulf now between Callie and herself, and in truth she didn’t know if it could be breached. Callie had no interest in a family of her own and Martha was a wife; she would have a household, a garden to look after, and a husband to talk to about her day. And children. If they went on the way they had started, children would not be long in coming.
Martha wondered if it was quite normal for a new bride to be so preoccupied with sex. The subject was never far from her mind. What she had seen, and how it had felt. Especially how it felt, the things Daniel did with such focus and determination. He watched her so intently that she sometimes wondered if she was doing something wrong. Maybe the next time she would ask him straight out.
Whenever the next time might be. How long would it be before he turned to her with that expression she had already learned to recognize? And if he wasn’t turning to her, why wasn’t he, and what did it mean that she was hoping he would. Did a wife ask for her husband’s attention? She could hardly imagine it.
There were other things—important things—to worry about; she might even have been able to focus on those things for a few hours at least. If not for the fact that she was sore, and on horseback.
Just two miles out of Paradise where the road ran along the Sacandaga, Daniel came to a sudden stop for a reason that Martha couldn’t see right away. Then she followed his gaze down to the river, where two riders were watering their horses.
Seen through the trees Martha could make out very little about them, but Daniel didn’t have the same problem.
“Ethan,” he said.
“Ethan?”
“And Callie.”
“Ethan and Callie?” Like an echo, and just as empty of sensible thought. “But—”
“Here they come,” Daniel said. “We can ask them.”
At first Martha believed Daniel must be mistaken, because the young woman was unfamiliar to her. She held herself very well, which suited the plain but excellent cut of her clothes, from traveling cloak to boots.
Then she met Callie’s gaze beneath the scoop brim of her new bonnet and understood that something monumental had happened.
Callie was transformed from the anxious, bitter young woman who had come to call on Saturday, who had said her mind with such disapproval. That was the last time they had seen each other, because Callie hadn’t come to the ice-out party. And this, this was a different Callie altogether.
Then the sun caught the ring on Callie’s finger, and it all came clear.
Martha tried to pin down a single thought that she might put into words. I see you are married, or May I wish you joy, or This is a surprise, or Did you not swear to me just a few days ago that you would never marry, and scold me for my foolishness in considering such a thing? But she could say none of those things for fear of being misunderstood. Or, she admitted to herself, of being understood too well.
Daniel was saying, “We sat out the weather at the Allen place. You were in town?”
Martha would have poked him, had she been close enough. He was being dense.
“We got married, just about exactly a day after you.”
“In Mr. Cady’s parlor,” Callie added. The first words she had said.
Daniel blinked. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was surprised. But I’m happy for both of you. Congratulations. If we had known what you had in mind, we could have traveled together.”
At that Martha had to press her mouth shut, because the idea struck her as outlandish.
Ethan spoke to her directly, “I’d congratulate Daniel but he’s too proud of himself already. So I will wish you joy, Martha.”
How very awkward and silly it all sounded; this was the way people talked to each other in Manhattan salons, not on country lanes.
“You have gone very still,” Callie said to Martha. “I suppose we have shocked you with our news. We did try to find you in Johnstown.”
“Not at all,” Martha said, and she made an effort to put all the warmth and sincerity she could muster into her voice. “I am very happy for you, Callie.”
“The idea wasn’t to make you happy,” Callie said shortly. “It was to make your mother unhappy.”
There was an awkward pause. In the end Martha simply turned her horse’s head and walked away.
“There’s a lot to talk about,” she heard Daniel say behind her. “But this isn’t the place for it. Will you come home with us to see my folks?”
“That would be very nice,” Callie said. “I would like that.”
For the rest of the short trip Martha wondered what she might have said or done different, but there was no help for it. The four of them would arrive at Uphill House together. Her anxiety, already high, soared to the breaking point.
The idea wasn’t to make you happy. It was to make your mother unhappy.
Within five minutes they had left the Johnstown road and were following a deer trail uphill, single file. No chance to talk to Daniel or Ethan or even Callie. If she could voice her opinion, what then? She’d come across as mean-spirited, and maybe that was the right word.
Martha asked herself the hardest question: If it made sense for her to marry Daniel, why shouldn’t Callie marry Ethan? She needed protection and support; she had no money of her own and if Jemima should try to take the orchard from her, it would be much more difficult now. Ethan had put himself between Callie and Jemima, as Daniel had done for her.
Then what was wrong?
The answer came floating up without prodding at all. She doesn’t love him. Then again, it was none of her business who Callie loved or didn’t love. Ethan was no fool, and he had married Callie of his own free will.
When they came out of the woods at the back
of the clearing behind the Bonners’ place Martha’s heart leaped into her throat.
Daniel leaned over and squeezed her hand. “Chin up,” he said. “You have nothing to prove, you know. They already love you.”
From the corner of her eye she caught Callie’s expression. Reserved, watchful, and determined. She looked nothing like a bride, which made Martha think of what she herself might look like to the world after two days of Daniel’s attentions. Just then it came to her, as simple and clear as water: Callie’s marriage was truly one of convenience only. They had not shared a bed, and maybe they never would.
A face appeared at the kitchen window followed by a flurry of activity.
“Here they come,” Daniel said.
The kitchen door opened and disgorged the little people, as frisky as calves and bellowing almost as loud. Curiosity stood behind them leaning on her cane.
“Hold it right there!” she shouted. “You run out into that dooryard you’ll be knee-deep in mud, and then you be stuck right there with the rest of the creatures what don’t know no better while we in here visiting with the newlyweds and eating cake.”
The children went back the way they had come, looking disgruntled, so it was Curiosity who greeted them first, with Elizabeth and Nathaniel close behind.
“Now look at you,” Curiosity said, her eyes moving from Martha to Callie and back again. “Here we was expecting one wedding party but it looks to me like we got two brides here. Ethan! Did you go and marry Callie Wilde?”
Ethan had dismounted and he came over to bend down and kiss Curiosity’s cheek. “I did.”
“Two brides, then. Martha, did that man of yours forget you needed a ring?”
Martha was momentarily sorry to have taken off her gloves.
“Never mind!” Curiosity said, waving a hand in the air. “I got the idea Elizabeth already got that sorted. Daniel, where’s my sugar? Martha, Callie, you two come on now, everybody waiting to see you. Ain’t ever day we get two brides at once. In fact I can’t remember that ever happening. Don’t worry about those men of yours, they know the way.”