The Endless Forest (14 page)

To Martha’s eye, at least, Ethan seemed to have survived all that and prospered. He had inherited almost seventy percent of the land in and around Paradise, not to mention properties from Johnstown to Albany and beyond; he need never raise a finger if he didn’t care to. But he worked without pause, as if the village’s welfare rested entirely with him. He was never so talkative as he was when the subject was Paradise and improvements that might be made.

Now he was talking about the flood damage, which houses had roofs and which needed shutters, how difficult it was to get hinges and every other kind of hardware that was needed. Joshua Hench was an outstanding blacksmith and he was more than hardworking; since the flood it seemed that the sound of hammering came from the smithy twenty hours a day. But even Curiosity’s son-in-law could not conjure raw material out of thin air.

Martha liked it when Ethan talked to her like this, as a woman grown, someone capable of discussing the situation and contributing her
thoughts. It was very different from the hours she had spent going over the readings he had assigned her in philosophy and current events.

She looked up from her mending and saw that Curiosity was walking toward her, moving more quickly than a woman her age could or should. Her cane kicked up sharp-edged divots of earth.

“Came by to see Elizabeth,” she announced. “Asked about you and now here you are, working.”

“It’s not very much,” Martha said. “Just a little darning. Jennet’s boys are hard on their socks, and I might as well make myself useful.”

Curiosity called over to Anje. “Been at it since sunup, have you?”

Anje nodded and wiped a strand of hair from her face with the back of one wrist. “Joan should be coming to take over any minute now,” she called back.

Curiosity lowered herself onto the second stool and pushed out a deep breath. She said, “Don’t you have a nice hand with a needle. But then I always did like darning; it put me in a peaceful state of mind. Some women darn too heavy, but see there, you got a smooth edge all around.”

Martha made a humming sound and bent down to the thread basket, taking her time to find what she needed.

“You modest as you ever was as a girl and just as hard a worker,” Curiosity said. “Why do you blush and look away when you hear the truth spoke plain?”

“You give me too much credit,” Martha said. “I’ll take on any work that gives me an excuse to stay out of the village another day.”

A smile flickered across Curiosity’s face. “You planning on staying up here on the hill for good?”

“It’s a tempting idea,” Martha said. “I certainly wouldn’t ever be bored as long as the Bonner grandchildren are nearby. They want to go down to the village as much as I want to stay here, and somehow I’ve become the person they bring all their arguments to. I don’t make those decisions, but they seem to like to practice on me.”

Curiosity crossed her arms over her middle and rocked back and forth, laughing softly. “They are a rascally bunch. I can tell you, all this pestering about going down to the village will stop just as soon as Daniel opens the school back up. Then you’ll see how much work they got to do right here. Now you, you’ll go down when you ready. I expect you’ll want to see Callie sooner rather than later.”

“I think about her every day,” Martha said. “But then I always find a reason not to go.”

Curiosity thought about that for a while. “Ain’t much of a welcome home you had, but I don’t expect you wanted one.”

“No,” Martha said. “Not especially.”

“I had my doubts when they took you away to Manhattan,” Curiosity said. “But you turned out a fine young woman, and I’m glad to see you back here again.”

Tears filled Martha’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Now I’ma say something to you, and I want you to listen close. That young man—what was his name?”

“Edward Peyton,” Martha said. How strange it sounded, spoken out loud. “Teddy.”

“You can count yourself lucky to be shut of such a weak-willed boy. Maybe you don’t see it yet, but so it is.”

“Oh, I see it,” Martha said. “I had a letter from him yesterday that made everything clear to me. Do you want to hear it?”

“If you want to read it to me, I’ll listen.”

“I put it in the fire, but I can recite it word for word. It went like this: ‘My dear Miss Kirby, I should like to have the ring I gave you returned to me at your earliest convenience, as it was my grandmother’s and is meant to stay in the family. Sincerely, Edward Peyton the Third.’”

In the small silence that followed, Martha gathered her thoughts. “I did try to give it back to him on the day he broke the engagement off, but he could not get out of the house quickly enough.” The rest of what she was thinking came out almost against her will. “No doubt he is about to enter into another engagement. I’m sure I’ll hear about it soon, in next week’s post or the one after that.”

She wondered at herself that she could be so calm as she told these things, but it all seemed so small and far away. The very idea of Teddy left her hollow, nothing of anger or resentment. A kind of echo, and no more. Now there was a lightness, a feeling of having taken the right path, though it had not been her choice at the time.

“Not the right young man for you, no indeed,” Curiosity said. “You need somebody you can count on when things get rough. Because they going to get rough this summer, and I know you feel it coming.”

Martha came up out of her thoughts at this change of tone.

“You mean Jemima.”

“I do. That exactly who I mean. The only good thing that woman ever done was to bring you into the world and then leave you with us when she run off. But she back now, and the only reason for her to come looking for you is, she want something. She won’t stop coming at you until she got it.”

“What?” Martha said. “What could she want from me? Money? I’d give her everything if it meant being shut of her.”

“Don’t matter,” Curiosity said. “’Cause even if you give her every penny, she ain’t gonna be satisfied. It ain’t in her nature. So now, we know something’s coming, but there’s nothing to be gained by sitting around and worrying about it. I want you to go on about your life and settle down here in Paradise. Try to put Jemima out of your head and remember, we look after our own.”

Just as Curiosity got to her feet with the intention of going on to talk to Elizabeth, Anje called over. Could Martha watch the fire while Anje went to see what was keeping her sister? She still hadn’t had her midday meal and there was the matter of the Necessary.

Martha had not tended to such chores for many years, but she could not turn down such a reasonable and polite request for help. She tucked away her mending and took Anje’s place, waving to Curiosity as she set off for the house.

It was immediately familiar, the heat and steam and the many strong smells.

“Just keep stirring,” Anje said. “One of us will be back before the fire needs tending.”

Within a few minutes Martha’s clothes were soaked with steam and sweat, and the stirring stick felt as heavy as a tree. She was concentrating so hard that she didn’t notice Birdie until she had walked right up to stand on the far side of the fire pit.

“You need to tie your skirts up higher and tighter. You could catch fire. That’s how Anna from the trading post died; she didn’t pay attention and her skirts caught and—she died.”

Without comment or argument Martha stepped back from the pot and pulled a handful of her skirt up through her belt. Anybody who
came by would have a clear view of her stockinged legs from knee to shoe, but she never saw anyone here but the Bonner grandchildren and Curiosity or Hannah.

“That’s better,” Birdie said, still indignant. And: “Did you know that a person can die from a broken arm, even when it’s been set?”

Martha took her time answering. “I think I had heard that. Sometimes the marrow gets infected, or the blood.”

“I helped my sister set Friend Maria’s arm,” Birdie said. “My brother Daniel brought her to us, and Hannah told me how to help, and we set her arm. And I told her children that she would be well again soon.”

Martha had no idea what Birdie needed to hear, so she asked an obvious question.

“I’ve never seen it done. How do you set a broken bone?”

Birdie told her. It was a long and involved story because she stopped constantly to tell Martha where she had learned one fact or another and who had taught her. She had an astonishing memory for details, but Martha kept this observation to herself and said very little, unless it was to ask a question that would send Birdie off again.

“Friend Maria wasn’t even thirty years old,” Birdie said. “And her youngest just a year. What will they do?”

Now Martha understood why Birdie had come to her rather than her mother or one of her sisters, or even Curiosity.

Birdie was saying, “Missy O’Brien says they’ll have to go to an orphanage in Johnstown because a man can’t take care of so many little children unless he remarries right quick. And she said that she had faith that God would look after them. He never gives us more to bear than we can carry, that’s what she said.”

Her color was rising. “Do you believe that?”

“No,” Martha said. “It would be a happier world, if it were true. But people buckle and break every day under the weight they carry.” She thought of Callie’s father, who had simply walked away from home after Jemima cheated him out of everything he held dear.

Birdie turned suddenly, as if something had tapped her on the shoulder.

“I’m going to write an essay,” she said. “About burdens and happiness. Ma will help me, and Da and Lily and Hannah and—will you?”

“Of course,” Martha said, though she was not quite sure what she was agreeing to.

Birdie’s narrow back straightened as she walked toward the kitchen door. Which stood propped open, because Daniel Bonner was leaning against it, watching them. He caught Martha’s gaze and then he smiled, which was ever so rude. The polite thing to do would be to turn away and pretend he hadn’t seen her with her skirts hiked up and her legs visible. But he stood there still, grinning at her. Curiosity’s voice came from the kitchen, asking if he intended on holding the house up like that forever, and if not, he had best make a decision about in or out, and right now.

Martha closed her eyes and counted to ten, and then the smell of burning roused her. The fire.

She grabbed for the stirring stick but Daniel was there to take it out of her hand. She should object, but she was too flustered and in spite of Anje’s reassurances, the fire did need feeding. She ignored Daniel while she got an armful of wood from the stack up against the springhouse door. When she allowed herself to look again, he was stirring. His one arm moved the paddle effortlessly, where Martha had struggled with both.

Daniel said, “You’ve burned yourself.”

Martha didn’t know what he was talking about. She looked down and saw that there was a blister rising on her hand.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “But thank you for your concern. I can take over the stirring again.”

“I’m sure you could,” Daniel said. “But I’m not ready to stop.”

She held her breath for two beats, and then said, “You have better things to do; you must.”

He looked toward the house. “I’m supposed to meet Ben, but he’s late. So no, at this moment I have nothing better to do. It’s not too often I lend a hand at this kind of thing, you know. Be a shame to waste the opportunity.”

He stirred for a full moment while Martha tried to find something to say, but then he had had enough of waiting.

“You mad about something?”

“Not in the least.”

“Now see, I would say you’re plenty mad by the look on your face.”

“I am not mad,” Martha said with all the polite nonchalance she could muster. “Thank you kindly for your help.”

“Mad,” Daniel said. “As a wet hen.”

It took a great deal of effort to calm down, but Martha managed. She drew in a deep breath. “If I was being short with you, I apologize.”

Daniel nodded. “Well, that’s to be expected. You come back here after all those years in the big city, your manners ain’t what they used to be.”

“My manners?” Martha heard herself squeak.
“My
manners! What about your manners?”

He raised an eyebrow in what was clearly mock surprise. “And here I thought I was lending a hand.”

“You did. You are. But—”

“—one road or another I managed to make you mad.”

Her color was rising; she could feel it. “You you you—watched me. And my skirts—I’m not—You watch me.”

“What’s wrong with me watching you?”

“It’s unseemly.”

“It don’t seem to me anything out of the ordinary to look at a pretty girl all flushed from the heat. That’s not what you’re mad about. Not really.”

“You are being—” Martha stopped. “I see. You are winding me up.”

He laughed outright. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, giving him her most severe look. “Why would you?”

The very hardest part, once she turned away, was banishing anything that might be taken for a smile from her own face.