by Sara Donati
“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.
XVIII
Elizabeth looked down at the small notebook in front of her and closed her eyes in concentration.
“Skennen’kó:wa ken,” she said finally and then, unsure of herself, she looked up at Many-Doves for confirmation.
“Skennen’kó:wa,” replied Many-Doves. I am well.
Many-Doves was a demanding teacher of the Kahnyen’kehàka 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’kehàka.
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 downhill. 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 goodwill, 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.
“Daughter,” Mr. Witherspoon admonished softly, but Kitty turned her face away from him.
“Todd had the right idea, didn’t he?” said Julian. “There must be something worth doing in Johnstown. Should have gone with him,” he said. “I don’t wonder that they’ve thought up a party of some kind.”
Given the crushed look on Kitty’s face, Elizabeth wished that her brother would stop, but he went on, oblivious, wondering what could be keeping Richard in Johnstown, and how he, Julian, should have had his share in the fun.
“You’ll have your wish soon enough,” the judge said. “We start for Johnstown next week. Things to look after, you know.” He was looking at Elizabeth thoughtfully.
Elizabeth did her very best to remain impassive, glad for once that her brother’s manners did not give her the opportunity to speak.
“Next week? In this weather? Whatever for? Not that I should complain, it will be good to get out—won’t it, Lizzie? Oh,” he went on, not giving Elizabeth a chance to agree or decline. “Lizzie won’t want to come away, will she, there’s her school. Responsibilities to see to, and all that. She’s not free to go off at a whim anymore, are you, Lizzie?”
“I think Elizabeth will come along this time,” the judge said with a knowing lift of one brow. “There are business matters to attend to, after all. Taxes, and so forth.”
Elizabeth’s first thought was one of relief: it was already nearing the end of the first week of April, and her father had not mentioned the deed of gift or the property transfer for months. She had begun to fear he had changed his mind about this arrangement. Many nights she had lain awake wondering what she would do if this were the case, how she could get word to Nathaniel, what he would say. Now it seemed as though he was about to make an announcement, without Richard present. It was confusing, and it was worrying, and she knew these things showed on her face. She could feel Kitty Witherspoon watching her closely, her own mouth folded into a tight line of disapproval and hardly concealed envy.
“What’s all this about, Father?” asked Julian, relieving Elizabeth of the necessity of an answer.
There was a forceful knock at the door, and the judge got up, smiling.
“That will be Richard,” he said. “Let’s ask him, why don’t we?”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and forced her face into calm lines. This was what she had been waiting for, preparing for. She would make it seem as though she were finally accepting Richard. Suddenly she was glad of Kitty’s presence, which would explain her unwillingness to come directly to a clear answer, or to show any joy or even enthusiasm. Even the men would understand that. They would agree on a day to go to Johnstown to sign the deed before Mr. Bennett, as magistrate. Somehow she would have to get word to Hidden Wolf.
She was so wound up in these thoughts that she barely took in the way the room had fallen silent.
Elizabeth looked up expecting Richard and saw Nathaniel instead. He stood filling the doorway, his face tight with barely controlled anger. From one hand hung the carcass of a beaver, its great tail dripping water and blood; with the other hand he held a silent and terrified Liam Kirby firmly by the neck.
“Are we at home for such a purpose on a Saturday?” Julian interrupted while Nathaniel was laying out the story of finding Liam taking the beaver from his traps. “I should think this could wait until a more opportune moment.”
The judge didn’t even glance in his son’s direction. “It cannot,” he said shortly. “If a resident of Paradise seeks me out in my official capacity, then I am always at home. Now,” he said in his deepest voice. “Carry on, Nathaniel. And please, Julian, let the man talk.”
“There ain’t much more to tell you can’t see for yourself,” Nathaniel said. “The boy has been stealing from my traps, pretty much the whole winter. But this is the first I caught him. I don’t usually walk the trap line this time of day, you see.”
Liam stood in the center of the room, his vision focused on his own boots and the puddle he was creating on the carpet. Where his ears peeked out from his hair they were a peculiar bright shade of red. He had not yet spoken, but he twisted his cap in his hands convulsively.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Liam?” asked the judge.
“I ain’t done nothing,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Elizabeth stood immobile, looking between th
em. She saw the bruise rising on Liam’s cheekbone, dark against his pallor, and the fear and anger in his eyes.
“Liam has always been a good boy,” Mr. Witherspoon said in a conciliatory tone. “Isn’t that so, Judge?”
Nathaniel had been angry, but controlled. Now he swung to face the judge, and his restraint was clearly at its breaking point. “He’s been stealing from my traps, I caught him red-handed. There’s laws against stealing, still on the books, I’m assuming. Either you’ll do your duty or you won’t. Which is it?”
The judge held up a hand in a placating gesture. “This is a first-time offense, after all—”
“I tell you, this ain’t the first time my traps have been tampered with. And that’s not the least of it.” He paused, his stare as harsh as his tone was quiet. “You know it ain’t.”
“Are you talking about the theft you alleged—”
Elizabeth flinched as she saw Nathaniel’s color rise.
“Father,” she said, cutting them both off. She stood, immobile, knowing that every eye in the room was focused on her. Liam was looking at her as his salvation; the judge and Mr. Witherspoon were mystified at her interruption; Julian and Kitty wore their suspicions openly. Even Nathaniel, whose face she knew as well as her own, was looking at her with doubt and impatience and something like anger.
“What is it?” the judge asked. “Did you want to speak for the boy?”
“No,” said Elizabeth, and then, faltering, “I mean to say, I can’t speak for him or against him.” She took in Liam’s hurt stare, and decided that she dared not look at Nathaniel. “However, it would be appropriate to give him the chance to tell his version of what happened. Liam, will you talk to me about this?”
The boy’s mouth worked in a terrible grimace; Elizabeth thought he was close to tears.
“If you won’t defend yourself, and the evidence is against you, then there’s nothing I can do for you,” she said gently. “If you have been stealing, then you must face the consequences.”
