Into the Wilderness (110 page)

"The
winter is coming," Hannah said. "He will be cold, and lonely."

Elizabeth
wondered if she would ever grow used to having her thoughts read so easily. "I
expect that your grandfather will spend some time trapping with Robbie,"
she said, although she only could hope that this was true.

"If
I were a boy, I could go with him to look for Otter."

She
thought she had shed her share of tears for the day, and now
Elizabeth
found that she was wrong. And how
senseless it was to cry for little girls just because they could not go to the
places that little boys went so freely.

She
said, "When I was eight, I stole some of my cousin Merriweather's clothes.
I thought I could dress as a boy, and run away to do as I pleased."

"Did
it work?"

Elizabeth
shook her head. "They did not fit. You know," she said thoughtfully. "I
have never told anyone else about that little adventure of mine."

Hannah
smiled. It was a small gift, but perhaps enough to sleep on.
Elizabeth
kissed her cheek and then she
picked up the lantern to make her way down from the sleeping loft.

Nathaniel
and Runs-from-Bears were waiting in the shadows of the cold hearth, slumped in
chairs. Bears was deeply asleep, his head turned hard to one side, but
Nathaniel's eyes followed her as she moved toward him.

"You're
as tired as he is."

"True,"
Nathaniel agreed, squinting up at her with one eye closed. "But I ain't
quite so drunk."

He
had not slept for two days; the slightly slurred quality to his words might
have been nothing more than exhaustion. But the smell on him said something
else.
Elizabeth
stepped back.

"You've
been drinking?" she asked, incredulous.

"Aye,"
Nathaniel said. "That I have." Bears stirred slightly, as if he might
have something to add.

Torn
between unease and compassion, Elizabeth pushed out her breath audibly. "We'll
have to get Bears home somehow."

"They
wouldn't let him in. Or if they did, he'd regret it. Falling—Day won't tolerate
any man when he's been drinking."

It
was true that
Elizabeth
had never seen any
liquor at
Lake
in the Clouds, but neither had
she seen wheaten bread, or sugar, or coffee. It had not occurred to her that
the absence of hard drink was significant.

"Never
mind, Boots. We'll sleep in the barn," Nathaniel said, rising awkwardly.

"You'll
sleep in your bed," Elizabeth said shortly. "But I fear Bears must
stay where he is. He'll have a sore neck in the morning."

"That
will be the least of it." He paused. "You ain't mad at me?"

She
turned away from him to spread the hearth blanket over Bears. With her back to
him, she said: "It is a strange way to remember your grandfather or to say
goodbye to your father, and I do not see the sense of it, Nathaniel. But I also
see no sense in adding insult to injury. Go to bed."

He
put a hand on her shoulder. "Come with me."

"I
will sleep with Hannah tonight."

With
a jerk, he turned her toward him. "No." And seeing her face, he
dropped his hand and his head, but not before she saw how his eyes glistened in
the lamplight.

"No,"
he said, just as firmly. "Don't leave me alone."

Silently,
Elizabeth
nodded. She picked up the lantern and went ahead of him to their room.

* * *

He
slept uneasily, tossing and muttering in Kahnyen’keháka. Skimming on the
surface of sleep, Elizabeth started awake more than once. There was enough
light from the night sky to show her his face, deeply shadowed and outlined
with worry. She wanted to touch him, to smooth the lines from his face, but she
feared waking him. With a sigh, she turned away to curl on her side.

Behind
her Nathaniel stilled suddenly, and she knew he was awake. He pressed his
length against her back, his breath warm and harsh at her ear. He smelled of
whisky and the council fire. His hands were on her hips, and then he was with
her, in a smooth gliding motion. Even as she arched back against him with a
soft sound of surprise, he stilled and his grip loosened, and he fell away into
a true sleep.

She
lay in his arms, half dreaming of Oakmere, of aunt Merriweather at the tea
table with her married daughters around her. There had been much talk of
husbands at these teas when the men were absent: inexcusable habits, vagaries
and moods, strange affinities, male needs—unspecified, incomprehensible
needs—that must be seen to. Beyond these necessities, the hearts of men had
never seemed to interest her aunt, as if satisfying their stomachs and other
bodily demands were sufficient evil unto the day. As if men had no hearts to
speak of.

Elizabeth
felt
Nathaniel's heart beating against her back; her hair was wet with his
tears.
 

Aunt Merriweather
.
With a care not to wake him again,
Elizabeth
unwound herself from Nathaniel's embrace. She found a candle and slipped into
the main room to light it from the banked embers in the hearth. Bears was gone,
the blanket folded haphazardly over the arm of the chair. She hoped he had
found a more comfortable bed.

She
stood considering the pile of goods, still unpacked, that had come with them
from
Albany
.
After a moment's rumbling, she found it wedged between the packet of new quills
and the bill of sale for the schoolhouse: her aunt Merriweather's letter, the
green wax seal still intact. Elizabeth sat down in the chair and smoothed her
hands over the gentle curve of her stomach, considering the square of paper on
her knees. Beyond the muffled rush of the waterfall, the world was silent, and
the seal cracked open like a shot.

Elizabeth
unfolded the closely written sheets and leaned into the candlelight until the
elegant black script steadied enough to let itself be read. Thus Elizabeth
learned that while she had been moving north through the bush in the hope of
finding Nathaniel alive, aunt Merriweather had been nursing her husband through
a sudden and final illness; that she had buried him on a rainy summer morning
on the very day Elizabeth's letter had arrived with the shocking news of her
marriage to a backwoodsman; and that Augusta Merriweather, widowed mother of
four grown children, had nothing more pressing to do with her time than to
travel to the Colonies and see what could be salvaged of her beloved niece's
future and prospects. She had booked passage with a Captain Wentworth and
expected to arrive in mid—September.

Traveling
with her would be two servants, her eldest daughter, Amanda, and Amanda's
husband, Sir William Spencer, Viscount Durbeyfield.

* * *

They
were too busy the next day, all of them, to take note of Elizabeth's new
preoccupation. The harvest was close at hand, and the trapping season, and
there were now two men where a few months before there had been four to do the
work.
Elizabeth
was glad to have Nathaniel so occupied, because she was not yet ready to share
her latest news.

The
other women spent the day in the cornfield, but
Elizabeth
kept Hannah by her. She was pleased
to have the child's help and her easy company. They sorted through the
purchases from
Albany
,
setting aside the schoolroom supplies and gifts from provisions which needed to
be divided between the two cabins. Hannah was delighted with each discovery,
and her low spirits gradually rose while she dashed between cabins with her
arms full of good things.

In
the meantime,
Elizabeth
spent some time putting together a basket of supplies, from cloth and buttons
to a cone of sugar and a small sack of wheaten flour.

"Who
is that for?" Hannah wanted to know.

"Martha
Southern and her children."

"Oh."
She had found a pair of spectacles and she put them on, where they promptly
slid to the tip of her nose. "And these? Ian McGarrity?"

"Yes.
If his parents will allow it."
Elizabeth
did not want to think of Jed McGarrity right now, and so she sorted through the
small store of ribbons she had brought with her from
Albany
. She pulled out a dark blue and a
green, and wound them into a neat package, which she added to the basket.

"Do
you think Martha will take those things from us?"

Elizabeth
stood with a sigh. "I'm not sure," she said. "But I must
try."

* * *

It
was Jemima who came to the cabin door. Her homespun dress had been dyed a hasty
and uneven black, and it matched the frown on her face.

"Good
afternoon, Jemima," Elizabeth said softly. "May I see your
mother?"

"Of
course, Miz Elizabeth. Please do come in." Martha pulled the door out of
her daughter's hand, ignoring the look the little girl sent her way. "And
Hannah. It's so kind of you to call. Please do come in."

Hannah
headed immediately for the baby in his cradle near the hearth, but Jemima
intercepted her, placing her small, solid body between the other girl and her
goal.

"Daughter,"
Martha chided softly. "Go fetch Adam out of the garden. Go on now."

Jemima
hung back, staring at her feet. "What are they doing here?"

"We've
come to pay our respects,"
Elizabeth
answered, although the question had not been directed at her.

Jemima
left, banging the door behind her. The child wore her anger and misery so
clearly and unapologetically that some of
Elizabeth
's
dislike gave way without a struggle.

"She's
taken her pa's passing real hard," Martha explained.

"Yes,
of course she has. I am very sorry for your loss. Especially sorry,"
Elizabeth added.

Martha
nodded. Her fingers rubbed the thin fabric of her skirt, and for a moment she
could not meet
Elizabeth
's
eye.

"We
put our faith in the Lord. He had strong feelings, my Moses, and they moved him
too far at times.

Elizabeth
made
a small noise of encouragement, for she did not know how to respond to this.

Martha
looked up. "You've had a loss of your own," she said. "And I'm
sorry for Moses' part in it. I hope you all are taking comfort from each
other."

"Thank
you," Elizabeth said. "We are." Then she leaned forward. "Martha,
I have come to see if I can be of any help. If it is not too early to speak to
you of this."

The
basket sat between them on the floor; Martha's gaze moved over it, and there
was a flicker there: relief, and pleasure, too.

"Those
things are for you, and I hope they will be of use. But I had something else in
mind, as well."
Elizabeth
met Martha's surprised look, and with simple words, laid out her thoughts. By
the time she had finished, Martha was looking doubtful rather than surprised.

"I
don't like charity," she said. "Moses wouldn't want me to accept
charity."

Hannah
had scooped the baby onto her lap as soon as Jemima was out of the cabin, but
now he began to fuss. Distracted, Martha took him from Hannah and began to
jostle him on her knee.

"It
is skilled work," Elizabeth said softly. "I cannot sew, and I have
need of many things for myself, and for Hannah—and for the new child, as well.
I would not call that charity."

"Can
I work here?" Martha asked. "I wouldn't want to be taking these
children up the mountain every day."

"Of
course," Elizabeth said. "I will bring you what you need."

The
frown line between Martha's eyes slowly disappeared. "I can only sew half
days, until the corn is in. Two dollars for a day's work is all I'll
take."

"But
I inquired in Albany," Elizabeth pointed out. "Experienced
seamstresses ask for two and a half, and that seems fair."

Martha
jostled the boy on her lap, and produced her first smile of the day. "Paradise
ain't Albany, and you'll get plainer work from me," she said. "But we
can make the difference up in trade, if you'd be so kind. I'd still like my
girl to come to your school."

The
door opened and Jemima appeared, dragging her younger brother behind her.
Elizabeth
stifled a deep
sigh of resignation, and extended her hand toward Martha Southern.

* * *

At
dinner, Nathaniel almost laughed out loud to hear it told: Jemima Southern back
in Elizabeth's classroom, for good this time. It was only her sharpest look
that stopped him; that, and perhaps the fact that his head still pained him. At
the moment she could not sympathize one bit.