Into the Wilderness (36 page)

"He
did that," Richard said darkly, out of the sleigh now and checking the
harnesses, locating the reins. "He did that on purpose."

Elizabeth's
heart had begun to slow its pace, but now it picked up again. Richard was
looking at her with such a dark scowl, his brow drawn down in a sharp vee. He
knows, she thought numbly. He knows. She looked into the woods where Nathaniel
had disappeared and wished him back. She had not been afraid of Richard when he
seemed intent on kissing her, but she was afraid now.

"I'm
sure you're mistaken," she said, finally.

But
Richard wasn't looking at Elizabeth; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten her.
"Of course he did it, of course. He'd do anything to keep me from getting
to Hidden Wolf."

Elizabeth
shut her mouth and focused her gaze on her own hands, folded into a tight knot
in her lap.

"You
must be mistaken," she said again.

"Let
me tell you this," Richard said, snapping the reins sharply, too sharply,
thought Elizabeth, given the agitation which was still evident in the way the
horses jerked. "He'll have to kill me to do it, because I won't let any
man stand between me and Hidden Wolf."

Elizabeth's
fear dissipated suddenly in a cool wave of anger.
No man will stand between you and Hidden Wolf
she agreed silently.
But you haven't reckoned with me.

Elizabeth
looked down at the small notebook in front of her and closed her eyes in
concentration.

"Skennen'ko:was
ken," she said finally and then, unsure of herself, she looked up at
Many-Doves for confirmation.

"Skennen'kowa,"
replied Many-Doves . I am well.

Many-Doves
was a demanding teacher of the Kahnyen’keháka language, and not given to
premature praise of her student. In the dim early morning light Elizabeth found
it hard to read approval or dissatisfaction from her face.

Hannah,
on the other hand, grinned at Elizabeth broadly from her post at Many-Doves '
shoulder when she did well, or shook her head sadly when she erred.

"Shiá:ton!"
said Many-Doves , nodding almost imperceptibly toward the notebook.

Elizabeth
dipped her quill and carefully sounded out the phrase. Then she looked with
some satisfaction on the growing list of words and phrases she had collected
thus far in her early morning lessons. It struck her, suddenly, that there were
no
p
or
b
sounds, or any
l
sounds, either, which explained, perhaps, Falling—Day's discomfort with
Elizabeth's own name. When she put this question to Many-Doves , the younger
woman shrugged. "It seems we have no need of them," she said.
"Our stories are still worth listening to."

This
was an idea that would require some contemplation, but her teacher was not
quite finished with her for the day.

"What
do you say when someone is at your door?" Many-Doves asked, holding up a
hand to forestall Hannah's help.

"Let
her think."

"Tasatáweia't,"
suggested Elizabeth. "Come in.

Many-Doves
smiled, finally, and Elizabeth bent to sound out the complicated word,
wondering what symbol she should use for the little hiccup of air that
Many-Doves insisted on, as if a sound were swallowed whole. She settled on an
apostrophe, but wished for something better. She worried too about her
t'
s and
d'
s; Many-Doves used something that fell between the two sounds.
But because there was no model for her to use, Elizabeth had to settle for
depending on her own ear.

She
showed Many-Doves her work. "Is this correct?"

"Kahnyen'keha
tewatati," came the gentle response. We should speak Kahnyen'keháka.

Elizabeth
bit her lower lip. "Tohske' wahi?"

"Tohske'
wahi." Many-Doves nodded.

When
they had worked their way through three more phrases, Many-Doves rose and
opened the shutters. The spring morning came in, half light and a breeze still
cold, but with an undercurrent of warmth. Elizabeth put the cork in her ink
bottle and closed her notebook. By the time she had secured it safely away
where curious eyes would not stumble on it, Hannah had taken her place with her
primer open in front of her, and Many-Doves had begun copying out the day's
bible verse on the chalkboard. Elizabeth had just time to note to herself what
an innocent scene they made when the first students arrived at the door.

They
came in wet and noisy, their dinner buckets clattering and their boots
thumping, voices raised in arguments and stories and silliness. Elizabeth found
herself in the middle of them before she knew it, surrounded by their smells:
cedar smoke, evergreen, bear grease, damp wool tangy with a full winter's wear,
sweat. She wiped noses and peeled off coats and hung up soggy mittens, answered
questions and directed them toward their places, until she found herself in
front of the room and ready to begin, with their eyes—blues and grays and
greens and every kind of brown—fixed on her.

The
children were seated at two tables: the younger ones in the first row and the
older in a row behind them. Many-Doves sat at a small table in the corner under
the window, watching quietly as the children bent to their horn tablets to
begin work on their daily penmanship assignment. "Put not your trust in
princes," Many-Doves had written in her careful hand.

Elizabeth
sent Liam Kirby back to study with Many-Doves while she heard the littlest
students read. When she looked up from her charges, Elizabeth noted how
Many-Doves ' and Liam's heads were bent together over the tablet. Two human
beings couldn't look less alike, thought Elizabeth: slender and self—contained,
Many-Doves ' whole quiet energy was focused on the work before her while Liam's
riotous ginger hair and his substantial size were as hard to overlook as his
excesses of energy and enthusiasm. He jiggled, he thumped, he whistled between
his teeth; he could not sit still, although he meant to. At thirteen, Liam was
her oldest student and there he sat stumbling good—naturedly over the first
primer. Many-Doves ' gentle suggestions worked like a persistent rhythm to his
starts and stops.

Elizabeth
acknowledged to herself once again that she had not properly anticipated the
challenges of teaching. Liam was nothing like his brother Billy. He had not
blinked an eye on the first morning when Elizabeth had asked him to take a seat
next to Many-Doves , who could give him the attention he needed. What he lacked
in imagination and intelligence he made up for with jittery goodwill and a
dogged determination.

A
horn tablet slid under her nose, bringing Elizabeth up out of her thoughts.

"Please,
miz," said a small voice. "Ain't I finished yet?"

Elizabeth
directed her attention to the single line of print wandering up and down—hill.
She took a deep breath and gave Jemima Southern a regretful smile.

"I'm
afraid not," she said, and in a low voice so as not to disturb the other
children, she began to go over the reversed letters and backward shapes on the
tablet.

"Please,
miz," interrupted Jemima. "I cain't work on my tablet, could I
practice on the board instead, please?"

Elizabeth
looked first at the child, who had her mother's mild looks but her father's
sullen temperament, and then down at the tablet in her hands.

Writing
on the board was one of the most coveted of classroom privileges. The children
argued about it at every opportunity. Of course, they would and could argue
about anything: bringing in the firewood, cleaning the boards and sweeping the
floor, passing out books, who should leave the room first and come back in
last. In the recess Elizabeth had heard the boys arguing about whose father
could piss in a higher arc, one argument she had kept far away from. She had
found that there was no subject or task too small to quibble over. But writing
on the board was the most contentious issue of all.

The
others watched her with a mixture of curiosity and caution, wondering how she
would deal with Jemima. The child was bright, and needed direction. But she was
also cunning and disagreeable. In another classroom, with a male schoolteacher,
both her intelligence and her wiles would have been crushed in short order. How
to cope with one without undermining the other? Elizabeth knew that Jemima had
lessons to teach her, but sometimes it was hard to be philosophical when
confronted with her smug little smile.

The
fire crackled in the hearth while she considered, feeling the weight of all the
children's attention on her. Even Hannah, who rarely looked up from her work,
was watching.

"Go
on now, ‘Mima," called Liam from the back of the room just when Elizabeth
thought that the child was not going to give in and would have to be brought to
task publicly. "Set down. Cain't you see she won't be budged? She ain't
gonna let you take no shortcuts."

"Thank
you, Liam," Elizabeth said, trying to suppress a smile and only partially
succeeding. "I think Jemima and I understand each other well enough."

A
flicker of disappointment flashed over Jemima's face, but she went back to her
table without further complaint. She settled herself onto the bench with tight
little movements, taking care not to touch Hannah. The two children might have
been in separate classrooms.

* * *

On
Saturday Elizabeth dismissed school with a heavy heart and took more time than
she needed to set the cabin in order before starting out. She stood on the
little porch for a moment, looking at the way the world around her dripped from
every twig, and pulled her shawl and her hood up over her head in a vain
attempt to stay dry.

Within
ten minutes her skirts were muddy and Elizabeth was anticipating a cup of tea
and a dry pair of shoes, even while she dreaded the evening at home. Kitty
Witherspoon and her father were coming to call, and Richard was expected back
from Johnstown. She wasn't sure what she dreaded more, Richard's attentions or
Kitty's unhappiness about Richard's attentions.

There
was a crackling in the bush, and Elizabeth paused.

"Come
on, then, Dolly," she said kindly. "Come along and walk with me.

As
the eleven—year—old emerged from the wood, Elizabeth smiled. "You needn't
be afraid," she said kindly. "I'm glad to have your company on the
walk home."

This
was not strictly true, but Dolly Smythe was so painfully shy that Elizabeth
felt obliged to encourage her every effort to reach out.

Dolly
bobbed her head and attempted a half curtsy, all elbows and awkward good—will,
her gaze directed firmly downward. Elizabeth was sure this was due to the fact
that the child was terribly cross—eyed. She expected her to fall into step
beside her and walk the rest of the distance in silence, but Dolly surprised
her.

"There's
somebody watching," she said breathlessly.

Elizabeth
came to a stop, sliding a little in the mud. She looked into the woods, but saw
no sign of anyone at all.

"What
do you mean?"

"Somebody's
watching." Dolly shrugged, unwilling or unable to be more specific.
"I heard 'em, just now."

Elizabeth
considered for a moment, feeling the way her heart picked up a beat.

"Probably
one of the boys," she said. "Wanting to scare us.

Dolly
glanced up, one of her rare direct looks. Below arched brows the color of
wheat, one green—gray eye darted toward Elizabeth with the other lagging
behind. She dropped her gaze suddenly.

"No,
ma'am," she said simply.

"Well,
whoever it is, they'll catch a cold," Elizabeth said, sounding cross when
she knew that she should be sounding frightened. She wanted to call out
Nathaniel's name, force him to show himself, but she closed her mouth in a firm
line and set out again, with Dolly slipping and sliding beside her.

* * *

There
were three kinds of meat for dinner, pickled tomatoes, Curiosity's best beans
stewed with fatback, drop biscuits, a trifle laced with more brandy than was
seemly, and there was Kitty, staring at Elizabeth as if she had just murdered
her own family before she sat down to eat. Because her father and Mr.
Witherspoon seemed content to discuss the weather for the entire meal, and
because Richard had not arrived as expected, Elizabeth was able to avoid any
topic which would cause her to deal with the younger woman directly. Kitty's
anger toward Elizabeth was implacable: Richard was at the heart of it, and
Elizabeth could not make amends. Not at the moment, at any rate. She
concentrated on her meal and spoke only when Mr. Witherspoon directed a
question toward her, or when Julian tried to draw her into one of his stories.

The
judge seemed perfectly willing to continue the discussion of the thaw as they
settled in the parlor after dinner, but Julian had had enough and he let it be
known.

"There
must be something to do at this time of year besides discuss the weather,"
he said impatiently.

"There's
nothing to do here, there never is," Kitty said dramatically.