Into the Wilderness (101 page)

But
Martha was looking over the lake with a thoughtful expression. "I grew up
in Fish Creek, did you know that? There were fourteen of us, and I was the second
youngest, the only girl." She glanced at Elizabeth to see if this story
was welcome, and then she murmured a soft word of encouragement to the child. "There
was never enough on the table. We didn't starve, you understand, but you could
never be sure of the next meal, either. You learned to be quick and to take
what you could before anybody else caught you at it. Now, Moses is a harsh man
at times, but there's always plenty on our table, and I know as long as he's
alive I won't have to worry about how to feed my children. But Miz Elizabeth,
you know, I still have this urge sometimes when I take the corn bread out of
the oven, hungry or not, I could eat the half pan standing there, and hide the
rest under my pillow."

"Martha,"
Elizabeth said. "You could, but you do not. You have learned not to. When
I look at this—" She lifted her chin toward the littered shoreline. "It
seems so wasteful. Next year there will be no more wood ducks, and how sad that
is."

"But
of course there'll be wood ducks next year," Martha said, surprised. "There's
always wood ducks. They come up in the spring, they always have and they always
will. If that weren't the case, the judge would make a law and put an end to
the ducking, ain't that so?"

There
was a harsh sound just behind them. "What in hellfire do you think you are
doing, woman?" Moses Southern bellowed.

Martha
launched herself to her feet.
Elizabeth
caught sight of one white breast dripping milk and the outraged face of little
Jeremiah, suddenly deprived of his meal. Before she could rise, Moses had
pushed past her, advancing on Martha.

"You
got no more brains than a mud puppy Get on home, now, and wait for me. I'll
deal with you later."

Nathaniel
had appeared at
Elizabeth
's
side. He helped her to her feet just as Southern whirled around. With his eyes
narrowed and his great nose red and swollen in irritation, he looked almost
comical. If it weren't for the fact that he would take out his anger on Martha,
Elizabeth
would
have laughed at him.

"You
leave my wife alone!" he shouted.

"Lower
your voice, man," Nathaniel barked. "You're making a fool of
yourself."

Elizabeth
was
aware of Hawkeye coming up behind her.

"I
know what she's up to, and I won't have it!"

"We
were just talking, Mr. Southern," Elizabeth said calmly. "Nothing
more.

"Tell
her, Bonner. Tell her to stay away.

"I
hear you myself Mr. Southern. I think everyone in a ten—mile radius hears
you." In fact every man, woman, and child on the lake had put aside their
work to watch. At the very edge of the crowd
Elizabeth
caught a glimpse of Martha, pulling
her two reluctant children away.

There
was a soft clearing of a throat, and
Elizabeth
realized that her father had come closer. Moses turned to him, his expression
suddenly gleeful at the unexpected appearance of an ally. But the judge only
looked at him with a small frown.

"Moses,"
he said finally. "I suggest you go now, before you get yourself into more
trouble than you can handle."

New
outrage spread over the trapper's already florid face. "So you're taking
her side, are you? She run off, stole you blind—”

“Goddamn
it, Judge. Tell him to hold his tongue." Nathaniel's face hardened into
the mask she knew so well, the one that meant he was just barely keeping
control of his temper.

"I
am taking no one's side." The judge raised his voice slightly. "But I
can see where this is headed, and I see no reason to ruin the evening for the
whole village."

This
drew Moses up short. He glanced around himself for the first time and saw the
audience he had drawn. With a mumbled curse, he turned away and stamped off in
the direction of a group of men gathered on the far side of the fire.

At
the same time, Liam Kirby started toward them, convulsively twisting his cap in
his hands. He stopped in front of
Elizabeth
.

"I'm
sorry," he said, his gaze fixed firmly on his own feet.

"It's
not your fault, Liam."
Elizabeth
tried for an encouraging smile.

"No,
I'm sorry I can't come to school." He would not meet her eye, but even so
she could see the bruise that covered a good part of his left cheek.

"I
see," she said softly.

"Will
you tell Hannah I'm sorry to miss the games?" His voice was so low that
Elizabeth
thought at
first she had misheard him. His blush told her that she had not.

"I
will tell her."

The
boy nodded jerkily and then turned away, walking back to the group of men where
his brother waited for him.

"Won't
you come eat?" Anna called from the fire, gesturing to them. "More
than enough to go around."

Her
students, their faces turned toward her hopefully, fingers and mouths shiny
with grease; the Camerons, the Smythes, the McGarritys, all of them willing to
welcome her. John Glove came forward, speaking sensible words in a kind tone.

"Don't
be chased off, now, if you'd care to stay and eat with us. He won't bother you
anymore." He was a wealthy man, the owner of the mill, the owner of
slaves; his children sat in her classroom.

Chingachgook
stood on the shore, his expression unreadable. Behind her Nathaniel and Hawkeye
were silent, waiting for her to make this decision. Elizabeth felt suddenly
very weary, and unbearably sad.

"That's
very kind of you, Mr. Glove," she said. "But I think we should be
away home, don't you, Nathaniel?" She turned, seeking out Hawkeye's eye. He
nodded at her silently.

There
was not one bird or duck on the water, not as far as she could see: a new kind
of wilderness. As the canoe moved into the new darkness of the evening,
Chingachgook's song rose again, strong enough to be heard all around. On shore
there was sudden silence. She thought, she hoped, that they were hearing the
song of appeasing words to the spirit of the lake. Other words ran through her
head:
In the day shalt thou make thy
plant to grow, and in the morning shalt thou make thy seed to flourish: but the
harvest shall be a heap in the day of grief and of desperate sorrow.
These
words
Elizabeth
kept to herself, for the song said the same thing to anyone who would listen.

There
was a screech of high laughter from the shore, and a splash as the boys tossed
one of their unfortunate own into the water. The judge stood apart from the
crowd, watching with his hands crossed on his back and his chin on his chest.

The
breeze rose cool.
Elizabeth
turned her face to the sky, and out of the darkness a single mottled brown
feather came twirling to brush against her cheek. She caught it in her fingers
and examined it for a long minute. With hands slightly trembling,
Elizabeth
tucked it
carefully into her bodice.

"A
keepsake?" Nathaniel asked behind her.

"A
reminder."

"Wasn't
the most pleasant evening of your life, I'll wager."

"No,"
she agreed. "But perhaps it was one of the most instructive."

"Don't
judge them too harsh," Nathaniel said softly. "Or yourself, either. It's
going to take some time."

Chingachgook's
song trailed away into the night sky, as light and soft as a feather on the
cold night breeze.

* * *

Nathaniel
lit a torch and they went down to the waterfall. The slick stone steps were
familiar to him even in the dark, but she moved cautiously, digging with her
toes into the deep green moss. Wedged between rocks to extend over the water,
the torch threw a bright, rippling flower onto its dark surface.

In
the sticky heat of the July night, she waited for him to go first. He submerged
himself and welcomed the cold. When he surfaced she had un plaited her hair so
that it swept around her hips. Her skin glowed in the faint light, whiter than
the reluctant moon. Below her ribs there was the hint of a newly sloping curve
to her belly, there where the child grew; between the rounded weight of her
breasts a glistening of sweat.

He held
out his arms and she came to him. She drew in her breath at the cold, her
nipples hardening against his chest.

They
swam to the falls and then dived under the rushing water to the cool darkness
behind. On the other side of the flowing curtain the torch wavered and blinked
like a benevolent spirit, the only light in the world. He showed her the
footholds, guiding her hand to them one after the other. Then he climbed first
and, reaching down, lifted her over the edge into the cave where they had first
come together.

He
lit another torch and made a new nest of furs against the cool damp. Wound
together they shivered, and then they stopped shivering. Near sleep, she
suddenly stiffened in his arms, all her focus and attention turned inward. She
took his hand and put it on her belly, hushed him when he tried to speak. He
felt it then: the soft tumbling that was the child announcing itself, a swimmer
in a quiet sea.

She
fell asleep with her hair drying into curls around her face. Nathaniel listened
to the rhythm of her breathing, but he lay awake himself for a long time,
thinking about her. Her pleasure in the children she taught; her endless
patience with them. Her disappointment and impatience with the parents of those
children. She had the knack of righteous indignation without bitterness, but
for how long? Nathaniel wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger to tie
her to him and wondered how long she could tolerate living in
Paradise
.

"Good
God. They are talking of trying the queen of
France
as an enemy of the
state."

Nathaniel
produced a questioning sound around his spoonful of porridge.

Elizabeth
never looked up from Mr. Schuyler's copy of the
Gentlemen's Periodical.
"The Jacobins. They will end up
putting her to the guillotine as they did the king. Is there no end to this
insanity?" She pushed her bowl away to make more room for the newspaper,
her eyes flying greedily over the small print.

The
housekeeper hovered, clucking nervously.

"Boots,
eat your food," Nathaniel said. "Mrs. Vanderhyden here will fuss
herself into an apoplexy if she thinks she's sent you off without a decent
meal. Imagine how she'd explain herself to Mrs. Schuyler."

Elizabeth
cast
a distracted but apologetic look toward the housekeeper, and then reluctantly
put down the paper to pick up her spoon.

"You
said you were looking forward to the news," Nathaniel reminded her. "Guess
you didn't think so much would be afoot,"

She
swallowed hastily. "Well, yes. The yellow fever epidemic in
Philadelphia
is truly
horrifying, Nathaniel. So many have died. And then there is this Monsieur Genet
from the revolutionary government—if half of this is true, he is a revolution
unto himself. He is determined to pull this country into the European war, and
on
France
's
side."
Elizabeth
looked out the window to Catherine Schuyler's manicured garden. It seemed so
peaceful here, but she was beginning to believe that peace could never be
anything more than a deceptive lull in an ongoing storm. "The revolution
seemed such a hopeful thing in the beginning. I can hardly imagine what it's
turned into."

"I
can," Nathaniel said. "Listen, Boots. I don't want to say it ain't
important, what's going on in the world. But we've got a few things here to
work through today." With his chin he gestured to the unopened letter on
the table.

When
they had come to the Schuylers'
Albany
estate the evening before, they had found two letters.
Elizabeth
had read the one from Mrs. Schuyler straightaway: it was all apologies for the
family's absence, instructions on how to best enjoy herself in
Albany
,
and a three—times—repeated invitation for them to stop at
Saratoga
on their way home. The second letter
was from her aunt Merriweather; it was still unopened.

"I
will read it later today, when our business is concluded," she said. "It
will be easier then."

Nathaniel
touched her knee under the table.

"We'll
manage this, Boots. We've managed worse."

Elizabeth
shook her head while she drank the last of her tea. "I will believe that
when we have put the breach—of—promise suit behind us."