by Sara Donati
Another woman might have been frustrated, but Simon's questions pleased Lily, just as it pleased her to look at him. There was sawdust in his hair and eyebrows and his beard shadow was dark though it was hardly midday, and when he looked at her there was a burning in his eyes, an impatience barely held in check. Once she had thought him rather plain, something that confused her and amused her, too, that she had been so willfully blind.
“What you really asking,” Curiosity said when Simon had run out of questions. “Is whether our Lily got cold feet. You worried about her running out on you.” Curiosity shook her head at both of them as though they were unruly children. Before Lily could say anything, Curiosity waved a hand to stop her.
“I'ma go home and see if those girls got dinner on the table yet. You stay here and tell the man what he want to hear, child. I don't know about young people these days, I truly do not.”
There was a short silence between them after Curiosity had disappeared down the steps with her basket over her arm, and then Simon cleared his throat.
“Well?”
Lily crossed the room to him in five quick steps. “Of course I'm not going to change my mind. Would I be spending all my time making this cabin into a home for us if I planned to run off?”
She put a hand on his arm and felt the pulse jumping there. It was a shameful thing, but she took considerable pleasure in the discomfort he didn't quite manage to hide.
“You're stuck with me now, Simon Ballentyne,” she said. “Like it or not.”
That earned her the smile she wanted, the one that flashed his dimples and made his face come alive. She pushed the dark hair away from his face and he caught her hand, turned its palm to his mouth and kissed it. They might have done more—a shiver ran up Lily's back at the things he suggested, his mouth against her ear—but it was dinnertime, and her stomach rumbled loud enough for him to hear it.
On the way home for dinner Simon had his own news to share: Anna McGarrity had promised them a rooster and three hens as a wedding present, and he had come to an agreement with the Cunninghams: Simon would build them a new shed in return for his second-best milch cow.
“Your friends are doing their level best to keep us here,” he said finally. “Though I can't understand why.”
She poked him then, hard, in the ribs, and he yelped and jumped out of her reach.
“You ungrateful wretch,” he said in a conversational tone. “And here was I, planning to put in your new stove tomorrow.”
“How peculiar, that the idea of a new stove should give me gooseflesh,” Lily said. “Who would have thought I'd take to housekeeping?”
He came closer and nudged her with his hip. “If that's all it takes to give you goose bumps, girl—”
“Stop,” she said, swerving away. “Not ten minutes ago we agreed that we can't be late for dinner again. My mother's patience is not endless. Keep your hands to yourself, and tell me about the schoolhouse.”
She saw straightaway that it was the wrong subject to raise. It made Simon think of less pleasant things, and now that he had turned his mind in that direction she would have the devil's own time turning it back again.
“He was at it again today,” Simon said.
Lily needn't ask for details. The Reverend Stiles continued to preach every day in the very middle of the village, sometimes for more than an hour, and, it seemed to Lily, always on the same topic. Since she had stopped working at the meetinghouse in the mornings while she was busy at the cabin, she had only heard about these sermons.
“If it does not bother me, Simon . . .” she began, and then her voice trailed away at the look he shot her.
They walked in silence for a while through grass ripe for haying, alive with grasshoppers and small darting animals desperate to find new cover.
Finally Lily said, “I have lived all my life in this village. People here know me, Simon. He can say what he likes, they won't believe him.”
“He's calling you a whore.” Simon's voice went hoarse and broke.
At that Lily must pause. “By name? He called me a whore by name?”
“All but,” Simon muttered. “It's aye clear who he's talking about.”
“Promise me something,” Lily said suddenly, stopping to turn to him and put her hands on his upper arms. “Promise me you won't let Stiles get the best of you. Don't raise a hand to him, Simon. Promise me.”
His mouth was set hard, and lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, as if he were looking at something that did not please him. This was one of the times when Lily saw how much like her father Simon Ballentyne really was: he would not be led, not even by her, when what she wanted went against his best judgment.
“I could promise you the moon and stars if you ask me, Lily Bonner, and what would that mean? What's in my power to give, that you'll have.”
For the rest of the walk they said nothing at all. Now and then Lily sent him a sidelong glance and saw how lost he was in his thoughts. Just before they reached home, he turned to her.
He said, “The very least I must do is discuss it with your father.”
“Get on with it then,” Lily said. “He's standing at the door there waiting for you.”
Nathaniel saw straight off that Simon had things to talk about, but he knew that Elizabeth would not allow such a discussion at her dinner table.
He had been watching his wife closely for the last weeks and had finally convinced himself that Curiosity was right: she was healthier than any woman her age carrying for the seventh time had any right to be. So he settled in for the stormy months, battened down and rode out her moods.
Now they ate cold chicken and new beans and lettuce from the kitchen garden while they spoke of the things she approved, and nothing else. She asked some questions about Lily's morning and what there was left to do at the old MacGregor cabin.
“We've got to stop calling it that,” Lily said.
“What would you call it, then?” Simon asked her, one brow arching, which meant he was in a teasing mood and would wind her up if given half a chance.
Elizabeth put a stop to that, though a little reluctantly. She said, “In the village they call it the Ballentyne place.”
“Already?” Lily asked.
“You sound displeased, daughter,” Nathaniel observed. “Did you want it to be known by your name?”
“Well, no,” Lily said. “I suppose not.”
“It takes some getting used to, I suppose,” Nathaniel said. “Giving up one name for another.”
Simon was watching Lily closely, not with worry or displeasure, but as he might watch a deer he was tracking to learn more about her habits. Elizabeth saw this with some satisfaction. She had the idea that he was the kind of man who knew better than to try to herd Lily where she wasn't yet ready to go.
Then talk turned to the schoolhouse, which was pretty much done; Nathaniel had to give Ballentyne credit for good work done fast and clean. There was some back-and-forth about the fieldstone for the chimneys and going to Johnstown for the window glass. For all her early misgivings, Elizabeth was pleased with the new building, and to Nathaniel's satisfaction, she had even regained some of her old spark when she talked about the next school year, and the hiring of a teacher.
The Wednesday post had brought three more application letters in response to the advertisement she had sent to the Albany and Manhattan papers.
“The long and short of it is,” Nathaniel finished up for her, “not one of the three suits your mother.” He gave Lily a little jab with his elbow, and winked at her. It was an old family joke, her mother's dissatisfaction with other teachers.
Elizabeth flushed a little but held up her chin. “Would you have less than the best possible teacher for the children of Paradise?”
“You know I wouldn't, Boots,” Nathaniel said. “But I got this feeling you're talking yourself clean out of hiring anybody at all.”
Elizabeth's mouth twitched, but she wouldn't rise to the teasing, not just now.
> “That is not true. I will write again to Will and ask about graduates from the African Free School.”
“Cousin Will Spencer,” Lily said to Simon. “He's a trustee at the school, in Manhattan.”
Lily was in the habit of helping Simon through family discussions by throwing him bits of information. That more than anything else made it clear to Nathaniel that she meant to go ahead and marry the man.
Ballentyne knew how to listen and keep his thoughts to himself, but this time something passed over his face, a question that was easy enough to read. Elizabeth caught it as neatly as a tossed apple.
“You disapprove, Simon?”
Ballentyne met her gaze directly. “No,” he said shortly. “I don't disapprove. But I imagine it won't be easy, bringing in a black schoolteacher.”
Nathaniel watched his wife with equal parts wariness and curiosity. Elizabeth was studying Ballentyne from across the table, the small vertical line between her brows very pronounced. He knew what that meant, but Ballentyne might not understand, just yet, what he had let himself in for.
“Simon,” Elizabeth said on an indrawn breath. “I hope you are not the kind of man to run from a challenge.”
He gave her an easy grin. “I'm to marry your daughter, am I no?”
Nathaniel had to bite back a smile, and even Elizabeth could not help but nod in concession.
“You think the people of Paradise will not like such a person as a teacher?” Her tone had shifted a little.
“Of course they won't, Ma,” Lily said. “Why pretend otherwise? If you want to hire somebody from the Free School, you're going to have a fight on your hands. Why not just hire Manny, at least he'll have a chance.”
At the look on Elizabeth's face—surprise, revelation, and a good dose of irritation at her own witlessness—Nathaniel had to laugh. “There you go, Boots,” he said. “Problem solved, and cleverly.”
Elizabeth's mouth shut with a click. “I must admit, it certainly should have occurred to me. Manny graduated from the Free School, after all. I wonder that Curiosity never raised the topic.”
“Maybe Curiosity is more worried about the trouble it will cause than you are,” Lily suggested.
But Elizabeth either did not hear this very reasonable suggestion, or discounted it out of hand. She put fork down and rose from the table with a distracted air.
“Sit down, Boots,” Nathaniel said. “You can go talk to Curiosity and Manny after dinner. Another hour ain't going to make any difference, and there's another problem we got to put our minds to. With any luck we can solve it just as quick.”
Nathaniel saw Lily's back go very straight; she knew what it was, then, and so did Ballentyne, by the look on his face.
“What is it, Nathaniel?” Elizabeth asked, one hand on the swelling at her waist.
“It's the Reverend Stiles,” Ballentyne answered for him. “Isn't that so?”
“It is,” Nathaniel said. “Jed came to talk to me about it today. Stiles has got a nasty way with words, and he gets worse every day.”
“The Bill of Rights is very clear about free speech, Nathaniel,” Elizabeth said primly. It was her schoolmistress voice, and Nathaniel knew what was coming.
“The more attention you pay to the man, the happier he will be. Ignore him, and he will tire of his campaign soon enough.”
“Have you heard his preaching lately?” Ballentyne asked, his tone sharp enough to earn him one of Elizabeth's severest looks.
“I would not give him the pleasure,” she said coldly.
“I am glad to know it,” Ballentyne said. “For it would pain you to hear the things he's saying about Lily.”
Elizabeth's mouth twitched, but before she could speak, Nathaniel cut in. “Don't ask him to repeat it, Boots. I wouldn't let him even if he cared to say the words out loud.”
Lily put down her cup with a sharp sound. “And do I have anything to say about this?”
Elizabeth's expression cleared. “Of course you do. Would you like your father and your bridegroom to avenge your good name, Lily? Would tar and feathers be a suitable punishment, or do you have something else in mind?”
“For Christ's sake, Boots,” Nathaniel said, pushing out a sigh. “All I'm going to do is talk to the man. Weren't you just telling us about free speech being protected by the Constitution?”
She closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again, and managed a small smile. “I was. Very well, if Lily agrees I shan't object. The two of you go off to see what sense you can talk to the Reverend Stiles. I wish you an entertaining afternoon of it.”
“Lily?”
His daughter looked at him as if he were a child asking for another piece of pie he didn't need and shouldn't have. A strange thing, to have the girl grow up on him while his back was turned, but there it was.
Finally she nodded. “You won't be happy until you do, so go talk to him. Do try to come up with something less extreme than relieving him of his offending tongue.”
Nathaniel caught Ballentyne's gaze and wondered if Lily realized that he was capable of that, and more.
He said, “Between us I'll wager we can come up with something a sight less messy.”
They found Stiles finishing his own dinner of cabbage and bread, alone at the table. No sign of young Justus Rising, and Nathaniel wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand he thought the boy needed to hear what he had to say, and on the other he had the sense it wouldn't do any good. Justus Rising reminded him of a half-witted dog, just sly enough to keep himself fed and quick to use his teeth. The kind that couldn't be taught because he didn't care to learn.
The cabin was dim and smelled strongly of sour clothes and sweat. It struck Nathaniel as odd, given the fact that Stiles was supposed to have such a good sense of smell, but then some men were partial to their own stink.
They went out on the porch to talk, where there was a fine view of the apple orchards. The trees were heavy with green fruit. It was a pretty spot, the orchard, built up out of hard work and dreams: Nicholas Wilde had wanted to come up with the perfect apple, not for pressing, but for eating. The villagers had laughed at him and then learned not to laugh; he had earned their respect over the years. And then Jemima Southern had come along. Nathaniel thought of the day he had gone into the bush to find Nicholas, and then he pushed the pictures away.
On the horizon a good summer storm was working itself up, fists of dark cloud punching closer.
“Thunder before the afternoon is done,” said Stiles. “Hail too.”
Nathaniel started to have his thoughts read so easily, and then he settled his face; he wouldn't let the man spook him so easy.
“Thunder at twilight,” he agreed. “Doesn't bode well.”
Stiles made an agreeable sound in his throat. “Did you two gentlemen come to talk to me about the weather?”
“You know why we're here,” Ballentyne said, not a man to dance around the matter at hand.
Stiles blinked once and again. “I expect I do.”
“Listen then, and listen close,” Nathaniel said. He scratched his jaw thoughtfully while he considered his words.
“You're new here, so let me make something clear you most probably don't know. My father and my grandfather and his people before him were hunting these mountains a hundred years ago and more. We've always been here, and we ain't going nowhere. That's the first thing.”
He paused. There was no reaction at all from Stiles, so he went on.
“We survived every kind of sickness over the years, more wars than I care to think about, settlers coming and going, fortune hunters of every stripe. They've tried to starve us out and burn us out and frighten us away. We're still here. We're staying right here. That's the second thing.”
Ballentyne stood quietly, all his muscles tensed, his eyes alive: ready to move, ready for battle. He had been trained well at Carryck, and Nathaniel was glad to have him along.
“Do go on,” Stiles said.
“Last thing. We protec
t our own, and we don't tolerate anybody coming after our women and children. I'll admit it's been some years since we had cause to remind folks of that fact, but make no mistake, Mr. Stiles. You'll stop bad-mouthing my daughter or I'll show you just what I mean.”
Stiles crossed his arms on his chest and rocked forward, his head canted sharp to the right as if he were thinking through a difficult puzzle.
“You object to the truth being spoken plain, then.”
Ballentyne moved, just an inch, but Nathaniel held up a hand to stop him.
“Your version of the truth.”
Stiles rocked a little more. “My truth comes from the good book. From the word of God. Your daughter is—”
“I'd advise you to stop just there,” Ballentyne said, stepping up close. “Keep your version of the truth to yourself. And you'll keep a civil tongue in your head or I'll feed it to the dogs.”
Nathaniel had to admire Ballentyne's tone, no bluster in him at all, and no mistaking that he meant every word. Except that Stiles didn't seem overly concerned.
After a moment Stiles said, “Perhaps I did make a mistake. Paradise may not be the God-fearing place I was told it would be.”
There were many things Nathaniel might have said to that, but he wasn't about to bring up the topic of Jemima Southern.
“Get out then. Sell the orchard and get out.”
And he saw, just then, that he had misjudged the man and mistook his game. Something small and satisfied flickered in Stiles's expression, and then was gone, banished. But Nathaniel knew what he was going to say.
“Very well, I am willing to sell you the farm and orchards for four hundred dollars. In silver.”
Ballentyne coughed a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it at all. “Silver,” he echoed.
“In time of war.” Stiles spread his hands out in front of him. “Paper money is less than dependable.”
“You bloody bastard,” Ballentyne said. “You thieving, no-good, backhanded—”
Nathaniel held up a finger to stop him. “That's twice what you paid for this place.”